


Light Beyond Darkness

by rekishi



Series: No Home Should Be Shrouded in Darkness [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Aftermath, Caring Thranduil, Elf magic, Hair appreciation, King Bard, M/M, Parent Thranduil, Silmarils, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, minor roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 53,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/pseuds/rekishi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil had expected many things after the death of Smaug, from the obstinate Dwarves back in Erebor to the makeshift refugee camp that the ruins of Dale had become. He had not bargained on wizards and armies of Orcs and the unpleasant surprises they brought. Alliances and more are forged with the Dragonslayer and battles are fought to preserve lives.</p><p>After the war Bard has to find his way as the new Lord of Dale, while Thranduil deals with wayward sons and headstrong foster daughters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Oddities of Fate and Circumstance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626892) by [carmenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenta/pseuds/carmenta). 



> This story is compliant to the theatrical version of "The Battle of Five Armies", the Extended Edition will probably joss it at least partially. 
> 
> My thanks to carmenta for the beta and being my trusty research assistant. ;)
> 
> Some of the conjectures I'm working on were heavily implied in the movie, and I also pulled canon details from the larger Tolkien mytharc where necessary.

"You would try to reason with a Dwarf?" Thranduil asked and peered down at the man from Esgaroth, keeping his expression intentionally impervious. This man who by all accounts had slain the dragon was familiar to Thranduil in appearance and bearing. His family were the bargemen who had ferried goods up and down the river ever since Thranduil had been forced to change his trading routes after Smaug had entered the Mountain. His family were the heirs to the lords of Dale.

"To avoid war?" the bargeman asked back, voice firm. "Yes."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at that boldness, but gave the sign for the troops to halt. The ruined streets of the city were narrow and they'd need to disperse, but the captains would make sure of that. "Follow me," he said and nudged his animal around, making his way back to the central fountain square for better maneuverability. He addressed one of his soldiers, "Get the man a horse! He would speak with the King under the Mountain, he can hardly go to him like a beggar."

The remark earned him a frown, though he only looked on in disdain. Once the man turned around to survey the ruins surrounding them, eyes searching for something he didn't seem to find. Then he turned to Thranduil and nodded with determination.

Minutes later, they rode single file down the ramp leading to the access road. Away from the walls and out of earshot of the city proper, Thranduil turned around and said loud enough to carry, "You are the heir to Girion."

Several seconds of silence followed. Then, "I thought that bloodline had long been lost to history." The sound of the words was bitter and Thranduil turned around to gauge the man's reaction; the eyes that met his were defiant, the brow furrowed. 

To gentle his answer, Thranduil gave an acknowledging nod. "Not in the eyes of the Elves." The tense shoulders relaxed fractionally, the knotted brow smoothed. The family resemblance carried even all these generations later, a curiosity Thranduil had noticed when the father first brought him to have the barge commission signed over to his son. Shaking his head fractionally, he brought his animal to a halt. "What is it you demand from Thorin?"

"He promised the people of the Lake a share of the treasure to rebuild the reputation of the city. To become more independent—of the Elves." The fact that he only hesitated for a moment spoke for him. The minds of Men were fickle and Thranduil knew not all of them thought favourably of his people. Though all descendants of the lords of Dale had always traded fairly with the Elves and had never tried to take more than their due. "I do not say I agree, but we need that money now, if only to survive, for our children to have a future."

The King under the Mountain owed the Men a city. And this man, Bard, they owed not just that, but his birthright as well. Thranduil smiled at him, making sure it was genuine. "It is a noble pursuit, let us see if your children will thank you for it. Thorin will not be amenable to see me, so I will wait here for you. I wish you luck, you will need it."

Bard nodded at him once before cantering off towards the gates of Erebor and Thranduil wished him luck indeed. He didn't relish the thought of throwing his soldiers against the sheer rock of the Mountain, but he would if he had to press his issue. Securing the Men's safety was an afterthought, and he'd said as much to them. Still, he would not let hundreds of people starve and freeze to death while he idly watched. 

Girion's heir. What a curious twist of history that Girion had been unable to kill the dragon and generations later, one of his descendants had managed that feat. Another town had been lost, innumerable lives extinguished, but the lives of Men came cheap in this age. The dragon, though, the dragon was rotting in the Lake down the river. Bard had done the impertinent Dwarves a favour.

He came back too early to have reached an agreement with Thorin, and Thranduil could read his grim expression from a long way off. 

"He'll give us nothing." As if that was any surprise, but Bard looked angry nevertheless.

"Such a pity," Thranduil told him. "Still, you tried."

"I do not understand," Bard continued. "Why? Why would he risk war?"

Clearly, no one had ever told him much about Dwarves, much less about the madness that ran in the line of Durin. "It is fruitless to reason with them." He drew his sword. "They understand only one thing. We attack at dawn." He turned his animal around. "Are you with us?"

"Do I have a choice?" Bard called after him, unhappy with the outcome of his parley. 

"You always have a choice, but if not I suggest you pull your people in tight and stay out of our way from now on." The sound of horse hooves clattered behind him and he was pleased Bard followed him without further question. 

Or so he had thought. "Lord Thranduil. I cannot command these people. They are only fishermen, small folk, most of them didn't serve in the guard and don't know how to wield a weapon. They need to have a say in this!"

Sighing, Thranduil looked over his shoulder. "Check the armory. Ask your people. Collect volunteers. You have the night."

Bard looked like he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it and they quietly rode back into the city. He gave the horse to one the captains and hurried off, hugging three children who showed up and threw themselves at him. Thranduil shook his head and made his way to the command tent, where he divested himself of his armour and looked across to the gates of the Mountain in the waning light. The Dwarves were making ready as well and he wondered if he could find a way to throw them off guard. Keep them on edge too long and make them careless. Thorin's actions now not only annoyed Thranduil, they also endangered the Men that had sought refuge in these ruins, simply by refusing them aid. 

Erebor sat silent in the distance, fires shining on the parapets and from the inside, but it had no answers for Thranduil. He went back inside the tent to look at the map he had spread on the table, a copy of an original from his library, but in the end they only had the approach from the front. 

Night was falling and the sound of weapons clanking drifted to him; the people of the Lake had rallied then. Thranduil wasn't surprised; Men were astonishingly resilient when they were convinced not all was lost. He stepped out and strode across the concourse to get a better overview. Grim faces peered at him, eyes avoided him, others looked hopeful or smiled. Several units were training and he could see some of his soldiers running drills with Men; swords and spears and bows had come out and were being put to use. Good. Whispers drifted to him, about himself, about the assistance the Elves had rendered, about Bard. 

"Find me the Dragonslayer!" he eventually called and stopped a passing soldier. "If he is with his children, stay with them. Make sure they keep out of the cold."

His private tent was guarded, but the flaps were down and he called in Galion. "Set up the braziers and heat water to wash. Get some food in here." His aide looked at him oddly and only scurried off when he glanced up. "Now."

A few minutes later the flap was drawn open and Bard drawled, "I'm not sure I like to be summoned, even by the Elvenking." After a heartbeat and with one corner of his mouth raised he added, "My Lord."

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at the tone but found he didn't actually mind. "Your people talk."

"They're not my people, I hold no sway over them," Bard answered and sounded tired. This was something they'd have to discuss, but when Thranduil looked up and took him in, he noticed the exhaustion emanating from the man for the first time. "How did you know the armory would still be stocked?"

"Dragons only covet riches, not weapons. Dale used to trade with Erebor and my realm, chances were good some of those weapons were of Dwarvish make. You are joining us, then." It wasn't a question, but Bard nodded anyway, rubbing his eyes with thumb and index finger. 

"I don't think they'll be ready by dawn." That was probably correct, but not Thranduil's concern now. They would take stock tomorrow; the days were short and growing shorter and he wanted to be back in the Woods before winter set in in earnest. 

"Galion," Thranduil said and his aide raised one of the flaps, nodding positive to the unposed question. He turned back to Bard. "If you would like to wash, we have water heated and Galion will show you—"

"I don't need a bath," Bard argued. "You didn't call me here to ask me to bathe."

Thranduil shook his head and walked around him, considering the holes in his coat, the inadequate gear for the weather and the fact that apparently Bard hadn't bothered with a weapon for himself. While the clothing had clearly seen better days, it was the burn marks that stood out most clearly. "No, but you and your wounds need tending to badly. I am happy to provide."

"I really can't—"

"Oh, but I insist," Thranduil interrupted him with a smile. Maybe it had teeth.

Narrowing his eyes, Bard studied him for a moment. "I can't win this, can I?"

"No." It was just as well the man realised that now. With a flourish, Thranduil indicated the curtained off area of the tent. "Galion."

His aide proceeded to walk after Bard, when Thranduil made him stop momentarily to say in their own tongue, "Burn whatever you can find replacements for. I cannot bear to look at those clothes. It will need to be something warm."

The Elf nodded and left to hurry after their guest. Bard was tall, so something would be found, even if it was from among Thranduil's own stores. A hauberk, too, at the very least to offer some semblance of protection, but Thranduil would take care of that along with weapons. Bard would have to realise that he needed to lead by example and even if thirteen Dwarves and Halfling shouldn't be a challenge, the people of Esgaroth probably saw this differently. Thranduil set aside a belt when the commotion in the curtained-off chamber started and he whipped aside the hangings. 

"What's the matter here?" he demanded and took in the scene: an utterly naked Man in a tug of war with Galion, who could easily have overpowered him if he'd wanted to. The Men were under Elvish protection though, and barely anyone would find any honour in hurting a naked man. 

Thranduil let his gaze travel over a well muscled physique, raised an eyebrow. Bard was a study in bruises and raw welts, blood blooming under the skin in livid colours of deep purple and almost black. Bloody scrapes ran down his side and more than one of them looked to be in the early stages of infection. The man clearly saw him looking, but only raised his chin and squared his stance somewhat. 

"Where are they taking my clothes?"

"To be burned, I think that is the only way to clean them anymore," Thranduil answered and wondered what he'd done to find himself in this situation. No use to ponder that now though, so he took another step towards the man and smirked. "You disagree?"

"Of course I disagree, those are my clothes!" To make his point he shook the edge of the turnip sack he called a tunic that he was holding, and Galion turned a suffering glance at Thranduil. And he knew he should probably keep his dignity, but he couldn't help but chuckle at this. So much for keeping his balance, but at least Bard proved to be far more entertaining than Thorin.

"Let him have his clothes if he so likes them. Do you object to have them cleaned? The singed edges still reek of dragon." Bard narrowed his eyes at him and Thranduil knew his expression was a mask of perfect innocence. Finally the man gave his accent and Thranduil moved his head to send Galion out. The second aid who was holding the coat he herded out of the tent, hissing in Sindarin, "Burn it now, the fires can always use fuel."

Bard, still naked and now shivering in the chill winter air of the tent, called after him. "Is this the Elvish way then?"

Thranduil smiled over his shoulder in a way that he knew was anything but reassuring. "You know very little of our ways, yet. Join me when you finish."

The main chamber had warmed by the time Bard returned, wrapped in a coat that looked more like a saddle blanket, though it would probably do. Clearly, the man tried to be resentful, but the look of relief on his face was almost palpable as he stood in the room, water dripping from his hair.

"Thank you," he said. 

Thranduil acknowledged that with half a nod and indicated for Bard to sit. "Eat, have something to drink."

Looking at him, Bard heaved a sigh. "Why am I here?"

"To discuss our proceedings from here on out and I find that easier knowing all the variables." Thranduil reached for his own wine to at least put the man at ease. "Tell me about the dragon."

With a groan, Bard finally took some of the bread from the table and poured himself wine. He then started to weave a tale of a burning city and rooftop pursuits running from fire that ended in the death of Smaug by what maybe was the last black arrow of this world. When Thranduil had first heard Esgaroth was on fire, all his instincts had told him this was Thorin's doing and he knew he'd need to move if he wanted to achieve anything. That was why he had sent Feren after Legolas, much good that had done.

"How did you end up with a black arrow, we were told Girion died that day." He remembered sending a unit down the river to help the straggling refugees reach Esgaroth safely, and all reports had indicated Lord Girion of Dale had perished while trying to defend the city. 

"He did." Bard dragged a hand down his face and looked contemplative. "His daughter went back, the arrow was the only heirloom she could still claim and with the dragon in the Mountain it fell to her to guard it. Her father and her brothers were dead, she escaped with her mother and the clothes on their backs." A grim smile spread on his face. "Much like us now. She went on to marry a fisherman until that barge contract fell into her lap. Your doing?"

But Thranduil merely smiled and kept his silence. The lords of Dale had been his allies, he would not have seen their blood perish. For a moment Bard studied him, then sighed and continued, "That story has been passed down in my family along with the arrow." 

Obviously Bard had given up even trying to keep any secrets from Thranduil. He wondered whether the man thought he could read minds. Let him, if that made it easier for Thranduil. 

"My Lord," Bard finally interrupted his reverie and Thranduil looked at him. "If I may ask, you demand your heirlooms back from Thorin, but you didn't bring siege engines, nor anything to break open the Mountain. How?"

Thranduil raised his eyes and looked at the tent wall and sent his senses out beyond, feeling his people all around them. Then he shook his head. "I brought over five thousand trained soldiers here, I think our two people combined should be able to take on thirteen Dwarves, do you not think so? And if we have to starve them out, their stores must be limited." 

Bard looked dubious for a moment, but if his doubts didn't dissipate, then at least he decided Thranduil was the one with the superior experience. "Thank you for taking on our cause, I don't know what we would have done without you."

"Starve," Thranduil told him bluntly and when Bard looked up startled, he shrugged. "You cannot tell me you are not aware of this."

"No, and we—"

"Save your gratitude for when we have achieved what we came to do." He looked the man in the eye. "You slew a dragon. It has been thousands of years since anyone could make that claim. Your blood is in this city, you are merely the latest in a long line of lords of Dale. People will follow you for that alone."

Bard held his gaze and took a deep breath. "I am not Lord of Dale," he finally said and got up, too sudden after his exploits of the last two days, the hot water from the wash, and the wine. Thranduil was also on his feet, ready to interfere should vertigo overwhelm him, but then the man found his balance again and looked up. "Thank you for your support and your generosity. However, I—"

With a move his chin, Thranduil indicated the cot in the corner of the room where he'd dropped everything earlier. "Mail and a sword. Try not to lose it, that weapon is older than most Elves out there, and much older than your bloodline. It will not break." 

For long seconds, Bard simply stared at the offered gear, then turned to look at him. "I cannot accept this."

"You can and you will."

Bard still stared. "Why?"

Thranduil considered him for a long moment, then stepped around him and took up the gear, made Bard take it into his hands, letting his own grip linger to make sure he took the weight. He made sure his voice was firm and didn't brook an argument when he said, "Because for better or worse, whether you want it or not, you are these people's leader now. You have assumed that responsibility by bringing them here, looking out for them, demanding their share of what is in that Mountain. You need to reflect that. If and when it comes to battle with the Dwarves, they will look to you."

He might as well have punched the man in front of him for all the good it did. "I didn't ask for this."

"No," Thranduil answered. Bard didn't flinch when Thranduil looked at him through hooded eyes, but the indrawn breath was too deep to be regular. "Most of us do not, but we accept such truths. It is in your blood. We had trade agreements with Dale that your ancestors honoured for generations and it made the city prosper. We have a common cause now, and you need to recognise your responsibilities."

Bard wasn't a trained warleader—although the people seemed to look to him for guidance anyway—he was a man and a father who tried to do what he could. And while he clearly knew who he was and what lay in his family's past, he had obviously never counted on having to live up to it. When he looked up at Thranduil once more to protest, Thranduil decided he had heard enough and stepped into his space. Bard took a breath that was cut off by surprise, pupils huge in the low lamp light, and Thranduil leaned in quickly to seal his lips to Bard's. He didn't worry about being careful; the man had killed a dragon, he could take care of himself.

He knew he'd judged right when Bard went from tense with surprise to pliant and then responsive until Bard pushed him away gently with a hand against his shoulder. When Thranduil could look at him, the man's breath had quickened and his eyes were searching. 

"Is this one of those responsibilities?"

"No," Thranduil said and wanted to step back but for the fist that had grabbed his robe's fabric at the shoulder, keeping him firmly in place. He wasn't sure of the exact implication of Bard's words, but he didn't like the direction. Bard needed to understand that the survival of his people was not balanced against his actions now.

But that simple assurance seemed to have been enough, for he merely frowned. "Is it one of of your Elvish ways?"

Close enough to the truth in words, but he doubted that had been the idea of them. Surprised, Thranduil blinked and couldn't help but breathe a laugh. "No. Well. Not this."

"Then what is this?" Bard demanded and the fist in the fabric at his shoulder tightened.

For a moment, Thranduil considered, but then went with the truth. "It is a distraction. You looked like you could use one."

"I see," Bard answered and his hold relaxed marginally.

"You do not mind." It wasn't meant as a question. Thranduil intended it as a statement.

One corner of Bard's mouth rose in a smirk. "No, keep distracting me," he said and pulled him in again by the fistful of cloth he was still holding. The kiss was fierce and demanding and soon led to more bare skin and more vigorous activities besides.

Noises in the camp had died down a long time ago when Thranduil got back to his feet and slipped on his clothes, the whisper of silk the only sound. Bard roused a little and Thranduil reached out a hand to push him back onto the cot. "Stay the night."

The man's voice was slurred when he answered, "My children—"

Thranduil shook his head. "It is late and they will have been asleep hours ago. I have someone watching over them. Do not worry."

"You—" Bard made to push himself off, but Thranduil rested his hand on his shoulder and didn't let him up. His injuries were healing and the bruises receding thanks to the athelas in the bathwater, but he would need the night yet. 

"I do not sleep in the field," he answered quietly. "Get some rest."

Bard stopped his token protests and his breathing turned regular again in a matter of seconds. His body needed the rest to heal and Thranduil preferred to have a capable and alert co-commander for this endeavour. The forces of Men might only present a token in the totals, but with the Dwarves back in Erebor, he wanted a power he knew to reckon in Dale. As it had always been for as long as it stood.

~*~

They didn't attack at dawn.

Thranduil had received reports that the Dwarves had cut off all access across the river and were making ready for a siege, so he decided they could probably spare the time and give the Men one more day to sort themselves out. His aides had tried to get some of the older people to leave with the messenger informing the force at home they'd need additional supplies, but no one had been swayed. This was another matter he would have to eventually discuss with Bard when the time came. 

Thranduil glanced at the map again, but didn't see the writing. Feren had returned from his errand days ago to inform him not only that Esgaroth had survivors, but also that Legolas had elected not to follow orders. He wondered where Legolas was now and whether Tauriel had gone with him; he had trust in both of them even if he couldn't let her stay. Still, he preferred to have his youngest son closer by his side.

He was pulled out of his contemplation by Galion's voice, "My Lord," and then pulling aside the flap to the tent. "Here's a young woman looking for the Dragonslayer."

With a frown, Thranduil set the tea on the table and stepped out into the morning sunlight. At least the weather was holding and they didn't expect more damp. The young woman was one of the children he had seen Bard with before, more a girl than anything, long hair plaited back, and with the same defiant expression as her father.

"My Lord," she said when she spotted him and demurely lowered her eyes for a moment. "My father was summoned last night and we haven't heard from him since."

"Yes," he answered. "What is your name?"

In obvious surprise she looked around, but Galion nodded at her. "Sigrid, my Lord," she then said, sounding far less certain than she had just a minute ago.

"And you came here all by yourself." He knew he was leaning on her more than she probably deserved, but it got him honest answers at least.

She let out a harsh breath and raised her skirts to display a knife sheathed at her lower leg. An Elvish knife. "I know how to take care of myself. Bain will look after Tilda." She saw him still look at the knife and let her clothes drop again. Someone walked by on her other side to drop a stack of cloth outside the tent. Bard's clothes. Her eyes narrowed. "Where is my father?"

"Sleeping," he told her. "His injuries are healing. Have you had breakfast?"

Her glance turned insecure. "I left when the others were about to find some."

Nodding, he invited her to follow him and led her towards the command tent where someone had laid out hot porridge and tea and where Bard would be directed also, when he woke up. He waited until she had taken a few bites and drunk some tea. The air was cold and Men were prone to sickness. "How did you come by that knife?"

She hesitated, swallowed and put the spoon back into the bowl. "Tauriel gave it to me. After the Orc attack."

"Orc attack?" he echoed. No reports had come to him about an Orc attack and Legolas— Well, Legolas had not reported back at any point, which probably explained why he hadn't heard about it. This was not good news.

She nodded. "I think they came after the Dwarves and with Kíli so sick... Tauriel and another Elf saved us and then he left and she brought us out when the dragon attacked. We owe her our lives." 

The other Elf must be Legolas. Thranduil could only assume he had since indeed met up with Tauriel again, considering Feren's report about their meetup at the shore of the Long Lake. By the way Sigrid scraped the spoon along the bottom of the bowl her appetite was gone, but she'd learned enough in the last few days already to know food might be scarce soon, so she forced herself to eat. Thranduil rested his chin in his hand while he watched her and hoped she really knew how to use that knife. He had seen too many refugee camps not to know where the danger lay for girls like her and her sister. 

"Do you know what this place is?" he asked in an attempt to distract her. Mutely, she shook her head. "This used to be the governing chamber of Dale," he explained. "If you look out north, you will see the walls of Erebor, and the former throne of the lords of Dale."

"Da said… But he also said it wasn't important." She finished her meal, but kept the bowl in her lap.

"It is always important to know where you come from," he told her and when she looked up and smiled he smiled back in reassurance. If Tauriel had judged her right she was well capable, and Tauriel had been captain of his guard because she had proven herself. 

Bard chose that moment to make his appearance. "Sigrid," he said with relief and she cried out and practically launched herself at him and he hugged her. The man brought with him the faint whiff of vinegar still lingering in the clothes from the cleaning attempts, but that would dissipate soon enough and it was far preferable to the pervasive smell of dragon of the day before. "Where is your sister?"

"My soldiers know to look after your children while we are idle," Thranduil interjected smoothly and indicated the table. "Breakfast?"

He stood to give them some space and stepped out to look across to Erebor. The kingdom under the Mountain was as silent as it had been the night before. Not for long now. 

A few minutes later, Bard's voice said behind him, "Thranduil?"

Turning around, Thranduil told him, "Prepare your men, we will not wait much longer."

Bard nodded. He was wearing both sword and mail that Thranduil had given him at least. "I don't think I can train anyone who can't to shoot well enough by the morrow."

"No. Swords and spears only, make sure they know how to not skewer themselves or their comrades." He breathed out heavily and shot a last look at Erebor. "Find me later in the day, we need to talk strategy."

Another nod told him Bard had understood, then the man made eye contact once more and smiled in the same lopsided way as last night. Thranduil gentled his voice and smiled in return. "Go to your children, train your men." He came closer and over Bard's shoulder found Sigrid still standing in the tent, finishing a cup of tea, an eye on them. "Hang on to that knife, you might yet need it."

She nodded. "My Lord, if you don't have to hurt the Dwarves—" She cut herself off and looked away. 

"This matter is in the hands of Thorin Oakenshield," he told her none too gently. She didn't flinch, however, and when Bard stepped up to her to lead her out of the tent, she asked him a low question that Thranduil ignored intentionally.

The sun had progressed too far across the sky already, and he had work to do. He had yet to hear from Legolas and he'd be resting easier if this was more like the boy. In recent years he had turned willful and Thranduil knew that even young as he was, he as the King couldn't tolerate outward defiance like this. But that was a conversation for another day, when he had returned.

With a sigh he called in one of the guards to get an estimate of how many fighting Men they needed to work into their tactics without endangering anyone.

~*~

The day turned markedly darker in the afternoon when Bard stuck his head into the command tent unexpectedly. "Thranduil. Do you know any wizards and are you expecting them?"

"I have no fondness for any wizards currently walking this world." When he looked up, Bard's expression was grim. "Which one is it?"

"Thranduil what is this folly, why did you come here and bring an army?" Mithrandir blustered and pushed past Bard into the tent. Rolling his eyes, Thranduil gestured Bard inside and for him to sit. "What are you doing with the Men?"

"The Dwarves left my hospitality without so much as a thank you, so I thought I might teach them," Thranduil returned and sat down. "I hear Men spoil easy once dead, so we keep them fresh out in the cold."

Bard—also seated by now—stared at him, then snorted a quiet laugh and shook his head. Thranduil gave him a small smile.

"You must set aside your petty grievances with the Dwarves," Mithrandir started his tirade and Thranduil was already bored. "War is coming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied! We're all in mortal danger." 

Rolling his eyes, Thranduil looked at Bard who seemed to hover somewhere in a state between confused and alarmed. The latter one he finally gave voice to, "What are you talking about?"

"I can see you know nothing of wizards," Thranduil answered instead and pushed himself up again. He went to the table and started pouring Bard some wine, the man needed it. They both needed it, after having to deal with one of the more obnoxious wizards of this world. And he wanted to keep Bard away from him. "They are like winter thunder on a wild wind, rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm. But sometimes, a storm is just a storm."

"Not this time!" Mithrandir insisted. "Armies of Orcs are on the move! These are fighters, they have been bred for war. Our enemy summons his full strength."

Indeed, Orcs were bad news for Elves and Men alike, and knowing what he knew, Thranduil had more reason to be worried than anyone else in Dale was currently aware of. He'd not even told Legolas, knowing his son would find something to prove and probably waste his life and the lives of many of his people. 

"Why show his hand now?" he challenged instead

"Because we forced him. We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland." Of course, it all came back to Thorin and his foolhardy endeavour that had cost too many lives already. And now armies of Orcs were on the move. Mithrandir was walking over to the parapet overlooking Erebor. Thranduil could feel Bard stepping up behind him and together they followed the wizard outside. Worry emanated from the man and Thranduil knew there was no way to soothe that.

"The Dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor, Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the Mountain, not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position. This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the North. If that fell Kingdom should rise again Rivendell, Lórien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall." While the Woodland Realm, Esgaroth and Dale were just so much collateral damage in the wizard's eye. Thranduil should have known. It hardly mattered how well Thranduil guarded his borders. 

The Dwarves were ready for a siege and were clearly stubborn enough to hold out. Thranduil was neither willing nor able to forge an alliance with them, but what were his alternatives? Break them out, secure the Mountain and hold it with his own forces? He wasn't going to risk it. The Men would be little more than cooling bodies in a pool of their own blood then. 

"These Orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir, where are they?" Bard shot him a look from the side, but he needed that answer first.

Mithrandir shook his head. "I came from Dol Guldur. I don't know."

If the Orcs were making for Dol Guldur, they wouldn't pass by Erebor, it simply didn't make any sense. Still, Orc armies there would be bad news for his realm in the long run. Erebor as gateway to the north… Thranduil frowned before turning around and walked back inside.

"We attack at dawn," he told Bard. "Make ready. I want those Dwarves out of that Mountain."

Bard hurried after him, leaving the wizard behind. "Orc armies? Here?"

"Maybe. We cannot be sure." He couldn't afford to put the man at ease, but it probably wouldn't serve to alarm him further. 

"What if they do come here?" Bard demanded and this was a moment Thranduil really wished the man wasn't this quick to understand.

He briefly closed his eyes, exhaled. "I do not know. See your children, make sure they know what to do. Come back later." They exchanged a glance and Bard nodded before leaving the tent, presumably to tend to his people. 

Mithrandir hadn't come back in and when Thranduil checked, the wizard was still studying the walls of Erebor. Shaking his head, he took up his discarded wine again and looked out over the ruined city. A few Orcs hunting a dozen Dwarves were one thing, but an army of them… He silently cursed Mithrandir for having brought this upon them in the first place. If truly Sauron was back though… They were in bigger trouble than they all had initially thought and Thranduil wanted to get home and ready his kingdom for what was to come. 

By the time night had fallen again, Thranduil had long determined where to position the contingent of Men and then Mithrandir returned to his tent. Thranduil knew he'd tried to sway some of his captains, but his Elves were loyal to a fault. He'd sent out three corps of archers ahead earlier to take position for the morrow.

"Since when has my council counted for so little? What do you think I'm trying to do?" The wizard was pacing back and forth in front of Thranduil, robbing him of his nerves. Outside Elves and Men were milling about with last-minute preparations. 

"I think you're trying to save your Dwarvish friends. And I admire your loyalty to them. But it does not dissuade me from my cause." He got up and stepped towards the wizard and hissed, "You started this, Mithrandir, you will forgive me if I finish it."

If he was the one settled with solving this problem, then he would use his own means. So be it.

He turned to one of his guards outside, "Are the archers in position?"

"Yes, my Lord," the guard answered.

"Give the order. If anything moves on that Mountain, kill it." The guard nodded and stepped off. Without turning to Mithrandir he said, "The Dwarves are out of time."

Behind him, he could hear the wizard leave the tent and address someone outside. A few minutes later Bard stepped up behind Thranduil a few minutes later. He turned his head slightly to speak to the man and have the conversation remain between them, "Has he tried to dissuade you?"

"Tried yes, succeeded no. I think the point is moot though, we have new information," Bard answered equally quiet. When Thranduil turned fully he was not only faced with Bard and Mithrandir, but also a Halfling. Curious. 

He went to sit down, gestured for Bard to do the same and made an educated guess. "If I'm not mistaken, this is the Halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from under the nose of my guards."

The Hobbit had the decency to look contrite. "Yesh. Sorry about that." At his side, Bard was radiating amusement. The Hobbit continued, "I came to give you this."

Out of his jacket he pulled a cloth-wrapped package and opened it on the table. Thranduil was on his feet instantly. In that bundle was a jewel the like of which he had laid eyes on only once before, radiating opalescently with its own inner light, the likes of which were too familiar to him to be entirely comfortable. 

"The Heart of the Mountain," he whispered. "The King's jewel."

"And worth a king's ransom," Bard added, stepping up so close next to him that he could feel heat radiating from his body. "How is this yours to give?"

"I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure," the Halfling answered.

Bard sounded incredulous as they both looked down at the Hobbit. "Why would you do this? You owe us no loyalty."

"I'm not doing it for you", the Hobbit clarified. "I know that Dwarves can be obstinate and pigheaded and difficult. And suspicious and secretive with the worst manners you can possibly imagine, but they are also brave and kind and loyal to a fault. I've grown very fond of them, and I would save them if I can. But Thorin values this stone above all else. In exchange for it's return, I believe he will give you what you were owed. There will be no need for war."

Bard caught his eyes beseechingly and let out a breath. He wanted to work something out that didn't mean war. One last parley. Almost imperceptibly, Thranduil nodded. It was Bard's city.

"My Lord," the Hobbit nodded and left with Mithrandir, leaving them alone.

He focused on Bard and let out a breath of his own. "I want half your people to stay in the city. All the archers you have, half of everyone else. I will not afford to leave any of my soldiers here. We have to stand in strength."

"Understood. We'll do what we can." Bard paused for a minute, pondering. "What am I supposed to do?"

Thranduil gave him a lopsided smile. "Follow my lead. Take the Arkenstone."

Visually taken aback, Bard frowned at him. "Why?"

"Just take it and keep it with what is yours until the morrow." The jewel was calling to him, sang to him and he couldn't afford to want it. Be deluded by it. Taken by its thrall. The only jewels in that Mountain he wanted were his own. He turned away to sit and have more wine.

"Thranduil!" 

He looked up to Bard as the man stepped in front of him, Arkenstone in hand, extending it towards him. The mere fact that he could touch the Arkenstone in the first place—if indeed it was what Thranduil suspected—spoke volumes. Thranduil made sure to look into his eyes instead; Bard was a safer focus right now. "What is it you want?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "You have a reputation, you know? To please the King of the Woodland Realm, give him jewels, he cares naught for gold. This is a unique jewel and you don't want it?"

For long moments, Thranduil debated how much to say, but in the end it wasn't as if he was revealing something Bard couldn't very well find out by himself. And he'd rather he tell him than have him learn it from the likes of Mithrandir. "There are objects in this world that would … corrupt those of us with power. Men are not affected by these specific ones immediately and sometimes never, your lifetimes are too short. Hence I would entrust the Arkenstone to you, for safekeeping. For now."

Blinking, Bard took a breath, then another. After a few moments he visibly collected himself and teased, "Is the Elvenking admitting to a weakness?"

"He might," Thranduil allowed and stood as well. "You may stay with me if you will, we will be leaving two hours before dawn. Follow me, and you will have your city. And more besides."

Bard shook his head. "If my children are healthy and have a home, what more is to want?"

Humility and stubbornness were qualities that made the man a good leader, but Thranduil kept that counsel to himself and smiled. Plans would need to be made for a future none of them knew what it looked like yet, but this had time until after tomorrow, when they knew what they had to work with.

"You need rest," he told him. "Come, my tent should have been kept warm enough for you."

"Will there be more distractions this night?"

Thranduil breathed a laugh. "I doubt you will be bored."

~*~

"Are you sure about this?" Bard asked, sounding less than pleased about their arrangement.

"Yes, quite," Thranduil told him and got into the saddle. "You are providing the second army, you act as my co-commander. You carry the Dwarves' greatest desire."

With a sigh, Bard swung up on his horse and they rode out of Dale together, side by side this time. The road was winding gently and Thranduil couldn't help but be impressed at the foresight of the original builders, who had left a killing field between the two realms. Thranduil had never sensed hostilities between Men and Dwarves, but this suggested otherwise. Or maybe it suggested safe pastures, protected with forces from two formidable powers in the east, as both Erebor and Dale had been that. At least he recalled horses and other livestock in these places in times past.

"I still can't believe that prophecy about the Kind under the Mountain and the Lake burning actually came true," said Bard quietly next to him. 

"Such is the nature of prophecies," Thranduil answered. "That is what they are made for."

"Do all of them?"

Considering, Thranduil surveyed their assembled armies rank after rank, orderly in case of the Elves, shifting nervously in the case of the Men in a cordon up front. Everything he'd ever known ahead of time had come true, but that had very little to do with prophecy. "People— _any_ people, Elves, Men, Dwarves, maybe even the Ent and certainly the Valar—may inadvertently make prophecies come true if they know of them. Especially so when trying to prevent them from doing so. But you could not have stopped Smaug from destroying your city any more than Fëanor and his sons could escape their doom."

Bard shot him a long glance, but Thranduil ignored it, just nudged his elk forward, parting the ranks of soldiers before them. "Remember, keep your men together if you can."

They rode to the front, almost to the water's edge when an arrow hit the ground between the elk's hooves. Thorin's voice rolled off the parapet, "I will put the next one between your eyes!"

Mindless posturing. But Thorin was not the only one who had come armed, and with a move of Thranduil's head, the archers stood ready. A warning look from Bard made him have the soldiers stand down once more. A power display, no more. Thorin had barely even blinked while his company had gone for cover. This was not a turn for the better.

"We have come to tell you payment of your debt has been offered and accepted," he told Thorin. What followed could not have worked out better if they had practiced it, although Bard almost goaded Thorin into throwing the Hobbit over the parapet. Mithrandir, meddling old wizard that he was, prevented that, although only just. The Halfling made it over the ramparts and to Mithrandir's side though, so they had one less life to worry about. For now.

At least he thought so until marching feet echoed from the east, announcing an army of Dwarves. While Bard looked worried, Thranduil had almost expected this might happen, Thorin was many things and mad besides, but he had been born in Erebor and knew that strength lay in numbers. Plans had been made accordingly and the Elvish contingents were instructed in case an event such as this was come to pass. Now they moved the two hosts around in concert, pushing and prodding the contingent of Men when needed. 

"Come," Thranduil told Bard and rode ahead of the soldiers. The two of them were the commanders, it was upon them to conduct parleys. 

The negotiations with Thorin Thranduil had left to Bard with relish, but Dáin Ironfoot was another matter, especially when he started to make the army of Men uneasy. Thranduil left it to Bard to rally them and focused on talking to the Dwarf lord. Or he would have taken over negotiating, if Mithrandir had not interfered again. But then the old wizard liked Dwarves, for whatever that was worth.

"I will not stand down before any Elf. Not least this faithless woodland sprite. He wishes nothing but ill upon my people. If he chooses to stand between me and my kin, I'll split his pretty head open! See if he's still smirking then," Dáin spat. At least he was a lot more verbal than Thorin had been either in Thranduil's halls or now in Erebor. Let him. Thranduil liked a good opponent.

"He is clearly mad, like his cousin," Thranduil retorted in a voice loud enough for everyone who cared to hear. Mithrandir shot him a disapproving glance, but Thranduil didn't particularly care whether he had the wizard's approval. So far his meddling had only brought disarray upon Elves and Men alike.

That was the moment the earth started to shake beneath the hooves of his elk and stones rained down from the slopes surrounding them.

When Thranduil was honest with himself he hadn't counted on the Orcs showing up quite this quickly. He thought he'd have time to at the very least get his soldiers and the Men, maybe, inside the Mountain to be able to pick off the Orcs one by one with his archers. But it wasn't meant to be and when the Dwarves started to hunker down behind their shields, he saw no way but to commit himself in one way or other. 

Thranduil knew the moment he gave the order for attack that he would come to regret it, but he also knew he didn't have a choice. He ordered disparate wings of his army around to cover their flanks and not let the Orcs advance too far, then saw the Men of Dale make their way back to the city from the corner of his eyes. War beasts had appeared, able to breach stone and mortar all by themselves and were making for Dale. Thranduil didn't know why, there was nothing of value to Orcs in that city, but he had his own battle to fight now. The Men would have to handle themselves.

Eventually though, when the brunt of the battle had turned into the streets of Dale, Thranduil edged along a rubble-strewn passage with his sword drawn at the ready.

The cobblestones were littered with bodies. All of them Elvish. His people. No Men, no Orcs. 

His vision was overlayed with memories; friends slain on the ground, empty eyes staring into nothingness. Blood pooling on the ground, red footprints in churned mud everywhere. Thranduil had stood over his father's body, slain for no good reason but the inability of high command to issue correct orders.

Now here again, too many of his people had died for no good reason but a pack of obstinate Dwarves waking a dragon. No more. Their deaths were his responsibilities and he would not stand for it.

He turned to Feren. "Recall your company."

They would evacuate everyone still standing. They could shelter Bard's people, relocate them after the winter had passed and that would be the end of it. 

But once more it was Mithrandir who had to interfere. "My Lord, disperse this force to Ravenhill, the Dwarves are about to be overrun. Thorin must be warned."

"By all means, warn him. I've spent enough Elvish blood in defense of this accursed land. No more!" Thranduil had had enough. He couldn't stand by and watch as his soldiers were being slaughtered in droves. Abandoning Mithrandir to whatever he would do to save the Dwarves, he resolutely made his way towards the central square that had been designated as main rallying point this side of the walls.

He still would need to find someone to collect the Men, but he needed to know who was still left first. Tauriel stood in their way a few streets further.

"You will go no further," she told him, having drawn herself up to her full height and ready to stand her ground. "You will not turn away. Not this time."

What did she know of other times? "Get out of my way."

Tears stood in her eyes. "The Dwarves will be slaughtered."

"Yes, they will die." How dare she stand against him, in front of his own army? He advanced towards her, intentionally threatening. He'd prefer to solve this without physically hurting her, but he'd take more extreme measures if he had to. "Today, tomorrow, one year hence, a hundred years from now. What does it matter? They are mortal."

It was the day of surprises, because when Tauriel drew an arrow on him he was genuinely shocked. Six hundred years he had held her in his highest regards, had made her captain of his personal guard … had been sure of her loyalty. 

"You think your life is worth more than theirs, while there is no love in it? There is no love in you." Her last words were little more than a hiss.

What did she know? She was young, too young to remember anything, to have seen anything. He knew, he had been there. He drew his sword and broke her bow and arrow both, pointed the tip at her. "What do you know of love? Nothing. What you feel for that Dwarf is not real. You think it is love? Are you ready to die for it?"

His sword was loose in his hand, not an imminent threat. Tauriel knew him, she'd seen him fight countless of times, she knew this wasn't a killing blow. She knew it could be one within the fraction of a second and he could see that knowledge in her eyes. She had let herself be led astray by what she imagined might be love— His blade was struck down suddenly and when he looked to his right he was staring at his son's face. 

"If you harm her you will have to kill me," Legolas said.

He left with her then, and Thranduil couldn't have called out to him if he had known how. The ground might have opened up and swallowed him and he would not have objected. 

The noises of fighting all around them had slowly receded; he wasn't sure whether that meant the alliance had gotten the upper hand or the Orcs had killed everyone they could lay their hands on. Ultimately, it didn't matter anymore.

"My Lord?" Feren asked behind him and Thranduil realised he had to go on. He had to bring his people home. Legolas had made his position clear, but Thranduil didn't have the luxury to go and convince him otherwise. His responsibilities lay not just with his son in this moment.

Closing his eyes, he took one more deep breath, then raised his head and commanded, "Follow your orders. Evacuate the Men, they cannot remain here. We are leaving."

More of his people were joining them, but not as many as he would have liked; he hoped they would be at their rallying points, waiting for further commands. It turned out he hadn't imagined the fighting dying down, because when they arrived at the central fountain square, he found two of his companies, some of them carrying or dragging Men too injured to walk by themselves. Some of his people were busy healing the most grievous wounds, saving what lives they could. 

He breathed a little easier when he saw his soldiers, then a shadow passed by above. Eagles. Maybe this truly meant the tides had turned. 

"Thranduil!" Bard exclaimed and when he looked back down, Bard was coming towards him, his children in tow. "I was worried. What is happening, why are your soldiers gathering everyone?"

"We are leaving," Thranduil answered gruffly. "You will be coming with us, I want you and your people safe."

"The Dwarves—" But Thranduil shook his head at that. "Will it be all right?"

"We saw Tauriel head for the hill," Sigrid supplied, holding her sister by the shoulders. The boy, Bain, had a sword clutched to his chest and looked around nervously, blood had spattered on his clothes but he didn't seem injured. 

"The Great Eagles have come to the Dwarves' rescue," Thranduil told them. "Tauriel is no longer of consequence to me."

Bard frowned and gestured for his children to leave them for a moment. "Your son was with her, we thought you had sent them to support Thorin and his boys." Thranduil remained silent, watched as one of his soldiers dragged one of the Men around a bend and then collapsed on top of him. They were swarmed instantly by several others, trying to help. He hoped they came in time. Bard spoke up once more, "Thranduil. He is your son."

When Thranduil looked back at him and caught his eye, the man raised both eyebrows in question. Yes, Legolas was his son, but he had also openly defied him and sided with a traitor to his kingdom, and while Legolas was a prince, he also was a subject. "You will learn one day that obedience is key and insubordination has to be punished."

"Thranduil," Bard said and almost reached out to him but lowered his hand before he could even start the gesture. "From all I gathered, Azog is not a regular Orc and that's who they went to find. Do you not want to know that he is all right?" Thranduil still looked at him, not sure whether Bard was even trying to make sense. "Go. I'll make sure everything here is in order."

Snorting involuntarily, Thranduil shook his head. "What happened to the man who cares naught to be Lord of Dale?"

"I still don't want to be Lord of Dale, but you made me your co-commander. I can rally a bunch of soldiers, even if they're Elves. Go." Thranduil probably had to count himself fortunate that Bard didn't shove him away bodily. A look at him told Thranduil the man had turned away already, gathered his children and was instructing them before stepping around to Feren. Well, at least Bard had understood that it was upon him to lead his people and where to find aid when he needed it. The city of Dale might yet have a future after all.

With a sigh that he felt in his bones and with his sword drawn, Thranduil turned toward Ravenhill.

~*~

Darkness had long engulfed the ruins of Dale, hiding bodies of ally and enemy alike from the eyes of Men, if not from the Elves. Thranduil's soldiers were still vigilant of threats, even though no new armies had shown up and the straggling remnants of the Orcs had pulled back to wherever they had come from. Still, he knew that he would not be able to take his guard down until the overall threat had been resolved. Now was not the time to evaluate that risk, though, they just had to assume that it remained.

Thranduil found Bard at a fire that had burned down almost to embers and blazed back to life when Thranduil added another log to it and lowered himself to a crouch next to the man. His youngest daughter had her head on his thigh and her eyes were staring luminously at Thranduil, Bard's hand stroking over her hair. The two older children had rolled up in coats next to their father. 

"She refuses to sleep," Bard said. "Tilda, this is King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. Sigrid said you met his son back home."

With a smile, Thranduil pulled off one of his gloves and reached out carefully to touch the child's forehead. "Let sleep and good dreams find you," he murmured in Sindarin and infused the words a miniscule push of power. 

Her eyes fluttered shut and her breath turned deep and regular. Bard caught his eye, asked gently, "More Elf magic?"

"Just a sleeping charm," Thranduil answered in the same tone of voice. "It'll fade in a few days, but it keeps night terrors at bay." He'd done it for Legolas after he had lost his mother. His son had been too small to remember his mother's death, and Thranduil had learned too late that the truth might have been kinder than the tale he had told. Until today they never spoke of it and now they both had to live with it, even if it tore at Thranduil's heart to do so.

He stared at the flames licking at the wood and wondered at the sudden pace of events. Had he been idle this long? But the Woodland Realm was stable where the shadows had not yet fallen, and they prospered. He knew his own father would have been pleased with his achievements. Yet now the times were passing by again and he needed to be ready. 

Bard brought his attention back into focus by saying, "What happened? We heard about Thorin."

A breath drawn and released and Thranduil shook his head. "Legolas openly defied me in front of my people. Even if I could have let that stand… He chose not to return. For now. He has to find his own way home. I set him on a path that will keep him safe." He didn't think Bard would know what that meant, but he didn't feel like elaborating either. Any path to the Dúnedain should lead Legolas past Imladris and Elrond would not turn away a wandering Elf, no matter the misgivings running between them. It was all Thranduil could do for his son. He wished it were different. He wished he could have taken Legolas home to discuss the events of the past days. But there was nothing more he could do but try and keep him safe. "Tauriel is keeping vigil with the Dwarves. I will speak to her when I can."

He fed another twig to the fire as Bard studied him. "I am sorry," he eventually offered.

Shaking his head, Thranduil took hold of his emotion and pushed them down. They had other problems at hand in this moment. "Why did you not bring the children to one of my tents?"

"Galion offered, but it didn't seem right. Why should I take advantage of your hospitality?" Bard stroked once more over his daughter's hair, careful not to wake her as he watched her with worried eyes. Thranduil knew the questions running through his head; could he have done better by them, should he have done differently, what of he had not come back. A moot point, they all had survived. This time, one more time.

Bard had a lot to learn yet, but still it wasn't hopeless. "If you show your people by example, you don't take advantage, you give them the opportunity they might otherwise be denied by their own insecurity." 

He seemed to contemplate that for a while and Thranduil decided to give him the time. With a last smile he put on his glove again and straightened. "Get some rest, Bard the Dragonslayer. For now my people will watch over you and yours. We have much to discuss the coming days and the Dwarves will want their own say. I'd have us act in accord once more."

~*~

"I do not care what you think is the practical course, my people will not be burned with Orcs!" Thranduil yelled, barely holding on to his composure. He could still see the pyres burning, the smoke stinging his eyes as he sat a stoic vigil over his father's body. King Oropher was the only one who had received a proper burial after that battle, all the others had to be burned within one night before their hasty retreat.

Bard threw up his hands, skin broken open by stones and cold. "Do you think I like it? I want to bury those dead, but that ground is frozen and won't thaw before spring, what do you suggest we do? We can't afford an epidemic right now!"

The Dwarves had silently removed their dead from the battlefield overnight and settled the Elves and Men with not just their own dead, but also the bodies of their opponents. Dale was littered with bodies in the tiniest crevasses, thankfully the killing field was mostly covered in Orcs. Bard had come to Thranduil to ask whether they could all be burned and now they had spent the past thirty minutes yelling at each other. 

"Find another solution then, do with your dead what you will, but do not think about touching mine!" 

"What about the Orcs then?" Bard demanded.

Thranduil slung his cloak around his shoulder and exited the tent. "Let them rot for all I care!"

His guards outside the tent stood at attention but he dismissed them, choosing instead to step up towards the parapet that overlooked the killing field. Too many dead. Thranduil himself had not lost as many as he had feared, and he'd had no estimate from the Dwarves, but of the survivors of Esgaroth, less than half were alive now. Only the bodies of the Dwarves had been removed from the killing field, and even with the freezing temperatures, it was only a matter of time until the rotting bodies of the Orcs would become a problem. Some of Thranduil's soldiers were picking through the field, identifying fallen comrades. He glanced at the slopes surrounding the Mountain. Maybe the killing field also provided the solution to their problem.

He turned back and walked into the tent. Bard was still there, brooding over a map. He raised his eyes when Thranduil entered. Their eyes met briefly and Thranduil said, "Do with your dead what you will, we will take care of our own."

The temperatures favoured them and it was less than a day's march to the Woodland Realm. They would bring the bodies home and give them proper burials.

"And the Orcs?" Bard inquired, apparently he had also calmed down in the meantime.

Nodding out towards the killing field, Thranduil said, "Throw them in the wormholes, no one knows how deep those are. They should fill up quickly by themselves and we are relieved of that problem." 

Bard considered and nodded. "I will have to ask—"

"Just make a decision, Bard, everyone will follow," Thranduil said, tired of the same old spiel. The man just set his jaw and shook his head. "And speaking of decisions, have you made one about Dale?"

That morning Bard had brought his children with him when he'd joined Thranduil for breakfast, as a show of good faith as he put it. At least he learned fast. It just as quickly turned out though that he also wanted to use Thranduil to prevent a tantrum. "Ever since Smaug devastated Dale, my ancestors swore they would return if he ever would be killed."

Sigrid and Bain had become pale and exclaimed in disbelief, "Da!" They had never known anything but the Long Lake, it was understandable they would protest. Tilda merely looked confused.

Thranduil meanwhile had smiled and leaned back with his tea. Of Bard it was sensible not to return to the lake with a rotting dragon in it. And now that the dragon was dead, he could reclaim his rightful place and a birthright denied too long. "Well then, I suppose that decision is made. Be aware though, word of the death of Smaug will have spread far and wide, you will have all manner of Men incoming, and not all of them will have their fellow Men's best interest at heart."

Bard had mutely nodded, implored by glances from his elder daughter and his son. 

Now he was nodding and looked at the canvas of the tent as if it wasn't even there, before directing his gaze at Thranduil. "I talked to the people, or what is left of them. Some said they would return to rebuild Esgaroth; fishing is all they know and dare to do in this life. Others said they'd stay, if I did and you truly would support us this winter." He took an audible breath. "You were right. My blood is in this city and I spilled too much that wasn't my own in its defense to leave it behind. Still."

Thranduil leaned forward. "Yes?"

A sigh and then Bard looked chagrined. "I might imagine it is common for Elves, but I have never built a city. I will need your help."

Smiling, Thranduil bowed his head a fraction in acknowledgement. "And you will have it."

The smile Bard directed at him in return was equal parts parts thankful and glum. "First I need wood for the pyres."

"It will not be a popular decision," Thranduil warned, immediately attuned to the gravity of their discussion. 

With a sigh, Bard nodded. "I know." 

With that, the Lords of Dale were back where they belonged.

~*~

Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews had been laid to rest inside the Lonely Mountain. The Dwarves of his company asked for Orcrist, the Elvish sword their King had used to kill Azog, to remain with him. Thranduil had not objected and told them to consider it a gift of their renewed diplomatic relations.

After discussing the matter with Bard the night before, the Arkenstone was now back in the heart of the Mountain as well, next to Orcrist, bestowed onto Thorin. For all Thranduil cared, it could remain there for the rest of eternity, at least no one would be driven insane by it. He knew better than to assume that was realistic, but he hadn't given up hope.

Tauriel had stood next to him during the ceremony, radiating silent misery, and had vanished right after it had finished. Dwarf caves were oppressing at the least miserable of times, and Thranduil was glad when he saw the light of the now opened front gate again. 

"King Thranduil," someone said behind him and when he looked, he saw the oldest of the company Legolas and Tauriel had imprisoned just a few short days ago. The Dwarf was hurrying towards him as quickly as he could without running and bowed. "Balin, son of Fundin. We met before."

Thranduil acknowledged him with a nod. "You were one of Thorin's advisers," he said, rather certain he could not be wrong with such an assessment.

Balin smiled sadly. "For all the advice Thorin would accept, aye. I talked to Dáin and we would resume formal relations with the Elves—"

Thranduil held up a hand to stay him. "For this, you shall talk to the people of Esgaroth and Dale. You owe Lord Bard his ancestral home and his business on the lake, I am willing to accept whatever terms you come to with him. I will gladly join the negotiations."

The Dwarf studied him with narrowed eyes, but Thranduil knew his face remained impassive and eventually Balin bowed his head in deference. "Very well, my Lord. However, please accept this as a token of our thanks for supporting us in our hour of need. We're aware that it is long overdue, but please, consider any debt you ever owed us void and us indebted to you."

With those words he opened the box he carried with a necklace of silver sitting sitting inside on top of glittering stones; the necklace was set with stones of purest starlight, sparkling even in the dimmed illumination of the great entrance hall. "The Gems of Lasgalen," Thranduil breathed and gently took the delicate filigree of interlinked silver from the box and ran it through his fingers, held it up to the daylight spilling in through the large gates. After a moment, he nodded his head fractionally and returned it into its protective casing. "Your gesture is appreciated."

Balin bowed his head once more and took his leave. Thranduil made his way out of the Mountain, the box safely in his arms. If he had a choice now he would look at them for the rest of the night; relearn their shape, weight and lustre, watch them reflect and break the light of sun and moon and flame. It wasn't meant to be, though, he was still King of the Woodland Realm and had his responsibilities.

He found her at the foot of Ravenhill. Many of the bodies had been cleared away over the last few days by communal efforts of Elves and Men so they didn't stand among piles of corpses. Tauriel stared up at the Lonely Mountain, visibly trying to regain her composure. He came to a halt and stood beside her, watching her from the corner of his eyes only. "You know l cannot rescind your banishment. You defied orders. You threatened me. "

She nodded in acceptance. Thranduil knew a few things about grief and the devastation it wreaked inside. He didn't know what her plans were from here on out, although most Elvish settlements would probably have accepted a skilled fighter like her in their ranks. She might have gone to Duinhir and asked asked him for shelter. However, Thranduil had given the matter some thought and would suggest a different course. 

He sighed. "Legolas will also not return for a while."

Her eyes were filled with unshed tears and surprise when she looked at him.

Shaking his head, he considered Ravenhill where Thorin Oakenshield had died. He'd never gotten a full report, but he knew Legolas had been mixed up in that whole debacle somehow. "I cannot allow you back just now ... but you can earn it." 

When she took a breath to answer he stilled her with a raised hand.

"The Men will stay in Dale. They will need help with rebuilding and they will need training, fighting as well as in our language, our ways. With the Dwarves back in Erebor, we need to strengthen the alliance with the Men." He paused. "If an Elf wanted to earn her place back at court … it would be a good opportunity. And you would be close."

He didn't say close to what. Home in the Woods. The Mountain. A grave within.

Tauriel swallowed back her tears, then bowed her head in obeisance. "Thank you, my Lord."

Thranduil nodded and turned to leave. He had a few propositions for the new Lord of Dale.

~*~

As a sign of their fledging appeasement policy with the Dwarves, Thranduil sent half his forces home that day along with the bodies of the dead. He also included instructions for continued delivery of food and fuel for the fires, as well as clothes, blankets and other items to establish a camp for months. The survivors of the people of Esgaroth—a disproportionate amount of women and children—would need assistance throughout the winter and well into the next year, he was under no illusion about that.

A movement at the door drew his attention, but it was only Bard's son, looking insecure at his new surroundings. Then he seemed to pull himself together and glanced at Thranduil. "The Dwarves sent a runner, they want to negotiate with Da tomorrow."

So Dáin was not about to waste any time; Thranduil was not in the least surprised. The King under the Mountain probably thought if he caught Bard unprepared and without a clear plan, he could press an advantage. Thranduil nodded at the boy. "As expected. Come in."

Blinking, Bain stepped further into the tent, looking lost. "We saw the Elves leave."

"We'll maintain a perimeter for the time being," Thranduil corrected him and finished his written commands for the forces in his Realm and sealed them. "At least until we have finalised a formal framework for our alliance." Bain nodded, but he was probably too young to understand the full scope of what his father and Thranduil were doing. He had also been through a lot over the past week, so Thranduil wouldn't ask too much of him. "Ask your father to come find me when he can make the time."

The boy nodded again and ran out; Thranduil shook his head with a smile. Dale was looking more habitable by the day; rubble had been cleared from the streets, bodies burned outside the city, buildings had been declared sound and temporarily settled. Unfortunately that didn't make the truly ruined houses any more safe, although Thranduil had to say he was impressed the structures still stood despite dragon fire and neglect. Something else he'd need to speak about with Bard. 

By the time the man entered the command tent he looked tired, and the cold again had broken open his knuckles. Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but Bard waved off. "Don't say it."

Thranduil merely invited him to the wash basin and the water, and Bard rolled his shoulders and gratefully washed his face and hands. The water coming in contact with the sores had to hurt, but he didn't complain. 

"Do you know what is your due from Dáin?" asked Thranduil while the man was busy.

He looked up at him dubiously. "Gold?"

"And where will you store all that gold?" Bard looked lost. "The Dwarves have one clear advantage: an almost unassailable fortress now that they will recall the rest of their people from the Iron Hills. They can store gold and protect it adequately."

Bard dried his hand and face and came up to where Thranduil stood, crossed his arms. "What do you suggest instead of gold?"

"I want you to receive gold, but more than that you need labour," Thranduil said bluntly. "The Dwarves owe you what Smaug stole from Dale and for the damages in Esgaroth, and you should insist on it for the future. But for now, physical labour is what you need; Dwarves are skilled at masonry, and you need buildings to get your people out of the cold and walls to protect this city."

"I can't imagine Dáin will be happy about that." Bard accepted the wine Thranduil handed him and took a deep swallow. "How long do you plan to stay?

"However long negotiations will take, I suppose, although by my assessment, Dáin will be amenable to settling this quickly. Dwarves might posture, but right now that is all it is." Dáin might be the new King under the Mountain and in need of proving himself to his people, but the company of Thorin Oakenshield seemed to hold a lot of sway over the sons of Durin. "You will use the command tent for negotiations, I will join you after pleasantries are over."

He got a long glance from Bard, a lopsided smile. "What do you not plan with military precision?"

Thranduil had an answer ready, but was interrupted by one of the guards positioned outside. "My Lords? We think you should see this." 

They exchanged a glance, but apparently Bard could offer no more insight into the reason for the interruption either. It turned out that the clearance of some rubble had uncovered a subterranean corridor with barred chambers. It was damp and revulsionary, sheets of mold hung from the ceiling and icicles clung to the wall. The smell of decay was all-pervasive and Thranduil stopped a few steps in.

"This is a truly unpleasant place," he said and saw the soldier next to him holding a torch shiver. Even the man behind him had a grim face. The small entourage that had gathered at the entrance to the corridor strained to see more.

Bard took a few more steps, holding a torch of his own aloft and tried to see into the shadowy crevices. "Dungeons," he said. "I never would have thought in Dale— But I guess they would need these."

"Lord Bard, I hope you are not being serious." Bard turned around to him, looking pained at the use of the title but questioning at the same time. "This is not a dungeon, this is a place where you put people to rot and die of gangrene and lockjaw."

Bard frowned. "That is commonly what dungeons are, yes."

Sometimes Thranduil was close to despairing over the civilization of Men, or what they considered to be civilization. Other times he wondered why he bothered at all. But then, Men had come far considering their limited life spans and young age.

"When you come to my Realm, I will have to show you what dungeons really are," Thranduil told him and the guard next to him went stock still. Thranduil glanced over him with disdain but didn't make any further comment.

"Would have been a good place to lock up Alfrid, eh Bard?" one of the men behind them called out and Bard shot him and amused look.

"I don't think even Alfrid deserves a place like this, Percy." With those words he came back to their group. "I think we can keep this locked up for now, I don't think we will need it in the near future. It is good to know about, though."

After several more minutes they left and closed up the passage again for the time being. No one needed dungeons at this point, and Bard wanted to prevent anyone getting ideas. Posting guards in front of the opening would use resources the Men didn't have and pushing big pieces of rubble in front of it right now was the best option.

When they stood back in the early night of winter, Bard shuddered. Exchanging a glance with him, Thranduil set the pace through the city. It gave Bard's people the opportunity to see them together and to know that the Elves had no plans of forsaking Men now that the conflict with the Dwarves had been resolved after a fashion.

They took a circuit route that eventually led them to Thranduil's personal tent. "Well, at least you would have a place for that gold now."

"I think I prefer the idea of rebuilding this place first." He certainly had his work cut out for him, but that would have been the case either way, unless he had settled somewhere else. That didn't seem to be Bard's way, though, he'd been too much a—albeit reluctant—leader for his people from the start. "Is there any more of that hot water?"

Thranduil laughed low in his throat. "There certainly can be. Galion!"

His aide raised the flap. "My Lords?"

"Lord Bard would like to bathe, see to it." 

"Yes, my Lord." Galion knew his duties, even if Halflings occasionally stole keys from under his nose.  
Thranduil turned to Bard, who was leafing through one of the books on the table. "Any more I can be at service for?"

"I'll need to be able to read this, won't I?" his guest asked.

"Eventually." Tauriel would take care of that, although Bard hadn't realised it yet. The young Elf had shown up in the city and declared her intention to stay and Bard had not objected, telling her anyone was welcome who wanted to contribute. "You spoke some when you first received the barge commission."

Startled Bard looked up. "I should have known you would remember that. Just a few words, I didn't want to seem..." He snorted, "Inadequate. We needed the money."

"I always appreciate the effort and so do my people on patrol," Thranduil assured him and then Galion stepped back into the tent. "Your bath is ready."

When Bard returned he clearly had trouble walking in full strides and looked less than pleased. "Please tell me this is the Elvish idea of a joke."

"Oh, but you look splendid," Thranduil informed him with a smirk. Galion had outdone himself and finally removed Bard's old and filthy clothes and replaced them with a set of Thranduil's robes. They were silver threaded, too long and clearly Bard wasn't used to the way they rippled and flowed around his legs, but they were indeed more than fit for a lord. "You had another option."

"It's too cold to go naked, I'd be sick and would have three sick kids within days." He took a few tentative steps. "Where are my clothes?"

"Feeding the fire," Thranduil said and saw the man's face fall. He smiled in reconciliation before turning to sort through some of the missives that had come from the Realm that day. "I am sure something will be found that is more suitable to your needs."

A few shuffling steps moved towards the small writing desk and stopped next to him. "Thranduil," Bard said impatiently and carefully bent forward.

He needed to reroute the wine delivery for the time being, since Esgaroth was not an option anymore and Bard had found himself a better occupation. When he shot a glance at Bard at his side, the other man leaned forward and caught his lips in a kiss. Thranduil briefly closed his eyes, felt their breathing match up after a moment. The kiss turned from gentle to firm and Bard leaned in, brushed Thranduil's hair back over his shoulder.

They broke for breath and Bard smiled at him. "How about a … distraction?" 

"Oh," Thranduil answered as Bard leaned forward and placed little teasing nips down along his throat, "by all means. Your kind of distraction is always welcome."

"Always?" Bard echoed. 

"It may not serve your course during negotiations tomorrow," Thranduil admitted, tilting his head to give him better access to his neck.  
Laughing, Bard straightened and reached out his hand. "I wouldn't think so. I'm also not sure what Dáin would say about it."

"Dwarves have a lack of females, I'm sure it wouldn't shock him," Thranduil remarked dryly and let himself be pulled up.

Bard shot him a pained look. "Dáin is not really what I want to talk about right now," he eventually said and kissed Thranduil again, a bit fiercer this time and Thranduil let himself be pushed back. Until the moment Bard's legs got tangled up in his clothes and he cursed in rather colourful expletives. "How do you walk in this?"

"Practice." Bard rolled his eyes and started to loosen the hooks and loops that held Thranduil's robes closed and pushed them off his shoulders. "Do not break your neck."

"Don't plan to." With those words, Bard dropped his own robes and revealed only boots underneath. When Thranduil pointed out that that was not the way to wear them, Bard said, "And that is why I'm better off with my own clothes."

Thranduil, on occasion, liked stubborn when it agreed with his own brand of it. From the start he had found Bard very agreeable and he didn't mind when the man now pressed him down on the cot. Their boots and the rest of Thranduil's clothes had ended up on the floor along with the robes, but he didn't care overly much. 

Bard's hand teased along his flank and stomach, carefully avoiding going lower until Thranduil threaded a hand into his still damp hair and made the man look at him. "I am immortal, you are most certainly not."

Breathing out a laugh, Bard kissed him quickly and then reached lower. "Who would have thought the immortal Elvenking would be this impatient."

"I am very patient," Thranduil told him, dragging his nails along Bard's thigh, making him shiver. "You, on the other hand, are new to this lordship, I should think you would want to see results more quickly."

"I lived through three teething children, I am a very patient man," Bard said and then shut them both up with another kiss. Their breathing quickened after that and they didn't say much but whispered directions and appreciative noises. 

The camp around them was completely silent when Thranduil raised one of Bard's hands to inspect it. He frowned and made it heal, skin broken from cold became smooth, small patches of blood closing up. 

"No kingsfoil?" Bard murmured and used that hand when it was released to comb through a few strands of Thranduil's hair.

"I do not always require that," he answered and turned to look at Bard. He was visibly tired, eyes almost falling but, but he was smiling. Thranduil shifted to stroke his thumb over a cheekbone which made Bard nuzzle into the crook of his neck. 

"Is that what you did to me the first night?" he said against his neck.

Snorting, Thranduil nudged him with his knee. "No, Galion supplemented the water with athelas. What you had done to yourself then was beyond the gentle push I just gave you."

"'s the dragon," Bard murmured. "Is it just us Men who feed it to the pigs?"

"What a waste for a perfectly fine remedy," Thranduil mused. "But you need at least a brush of magic in your blood to use it." Which might not even be the problem Bard faced, although now was probably the wrong moment to point that out.

Bard made a sound that might or might not have been acknowledgement and then his breathing evened out perfectly. For a few moments, Thranduil let him rest against him before disentangling himself and picked his clothes off the floor. Finally, he dragged a blanket over the man's prone form to retain heat. All physical pleasures aside, Bard had a good head on his shoulders and a good, strong heart in his chest. With a bit of assistance in the beginning he would become a good ruler. Of course, Thranduil wasn't opposed to the physical side, either. Sitting on the edge of the cot for a moment, he rested a hand on Bard's shoulder, feeling his warmth. No, indeed the physical side was quite welcome.

~*~

Thranduil waited. Bard needed to establish himself as the leader of the proceedings as to not appear in need of assistance by the Elves. The kingdom of Erebor and the city of Dale had to get along on a daily basis, while Thranduil's Realm was half a day's ride to the west. When he did finally enter his own command tent in full battle gear and with Tauriel by his side, he was surprised to not find Dáin at the table with Bard, but the Dwarf Balin. A wooden box stood at on the table by Bard's side, Bain stood behind his father. Thranduil had been King too long to be fazed by any of that, however, and waved down all courtesies the attendants wanted to pay him. Instead, he gestured a scribe over to take a look at what had been agreed on so far.

The old Dwarf regarded them mildly, then looked around at the scribes and aids around them. It wasn't like Balin hadn't brought his own, though, and some of those Dwarves Thranduil recognised as having been in Thorin's company. "A lot of Elves for a negotiation with Men, eh?"

"Tauriel is my watch commander," Bard informed him, acknowledging the irony of that with a half smile. To his credit, he had taken well to Tauriel simply assuming command of what was left of the able-bodied men and women. Balin regarded him in turn with all the respect one would a bug found under a large stone. "Tauriel, what did you evaluated we will require?"

"Swords," she started to list. "Spears, bows, knives, spikes for the ramparts. We have also need of mail, helmets, plated suits of armour that might be fitted to more than one man, including vambraces and shin guards."

Bard nodded at her. "Thank you, Tauriel." 

She bowed first to Bard and Balin, then to Thranduil. "My Lords." She left the tent in measured strides. 

Thranduil meanwhile had taken a seat and started to list in the most bored tone he could conjure, "Also spates, plough shares, axes, scythes, shears."

Balin sighed. "Very well, I suppose that is acceptable."

It would save Bard from having to renew weapons and farm tools over and over again; anything made by the Dwarves should serve for generations of Men, much like the weapons in the armoury had. Of course the Dwarves would not be able to deliver right away, but it was a start. 

The formal discussion about details continued until Balin finally said, "As for reparations for lives lost on the sides of Elves and Men—"

While Bard looked almost appalled, Thranduil had known it was coming and he drawled, "I'm not weighing my people's lives in gold." Balin stared at him. "If I were, however, my share would be converted into a long time loan to the city of Dale, to the care of Lord Bard."

The glare Bard shot him was angry and annoyed. Let him. Thranduil had a few more additions to this treaty that would leave the man angry, but eventually he'd come to see some sense. 

Although this did not prevent Bard from pacing the length of the tent once Balin's party had left. Thranduil sat back, drank from his cup of wine, and watched as the man walked back and forth, his face not unlike a storm cloud. "I cannot believe— Long term loan?"

With a sigh, Thranduil refilled his wine. "I have no need for gold. I have enough of it. It is inelegant and attracts dragons."

That brought him a stare to which he shrugged and took a sip of wine. "And dowries for my daughters?! Why? What were you even thinking?"

"It is truly a matter of practicality," Thranduil informed him. He had known that little addition would cause friction, but they had to think about more than the immediate future. Bard would see that eventually. "You are Lord of Dale now, you need to make a match for them eventually. And at the very least Sigrid is coming to the age where—" 

He stopped himself when Bard held up a defiant hand and groaned. "No, don't say that. That is not something I want to deal with today. You are not going to make me angry at my own children."

"That was far from my intention." Thranduil frowned. "You need the Dwarves' assistance. You need their ore and their labour and you need those far more acutely than you need their gold."

"I know that," Bard said slumped onto a stool and buried his face in his hands. "I'm not an idiot."

"I never said that," Thranduil pointed out and got up, poured another cup of wine for him so he would calm down. Bard accepted it only reluctantly. "It is hardly your fault that you are missing experience in large scale negotiations like this along with some other fairly complicated skills. Girion's descendants did as well as they could. The desolation of Smaug afflicted all of us."

"You seem to be doing well enough." He pulled a face. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

With a shrug, Thranduil settled back into his chair. "I am not dependent on either Dwarves or Men. Our dealings with Men and other settlements are convenient but not strictly necessary. The only regular import is my wine, everything else goes beyond luxury."

With a glum expression, Bard swirled his drink in his cup. "It's good wine," he finally said.

"I am glad you would think so," Thranduil said drily and at least that elicited a laugh from Bard. He made his decision in that moment, because they could spend all winter here and not reach a satisfactory agreement with the scales this unbalanced. "I shall postpone our negotiations."

Bard glanced up sharply and drew in a breath. "Why? You have been insisting—"

"Then what? We will help you this winter, I have long arranged for food and fuel deliveries to continue. Next year then you will think any arrangement we make now to favour you more than us and you will want to re-negotiate." He shook his head. "I prefer my contracts to last longer than this."

This was a known quantity; commissions with the Woodland Realm lasted for life unless one party ended the contract early. Bard knew this, for he had been the holder of one such commission, much as his father beforehand. Now the man set his wine down and shook his head. 

"Why are you even doing this? This was never your war. I am grateful to you beyond measure, but you risked a lot to help us."

Their eyes met and Thranduil let out a slow breath before turning around and looking over to Erebor. "It may not have been our war, but what happens here affects us as well. With what is coming, our borders may not hold if there is chaos beyond."

"What?" Bard sounded alarmed, but Thranduil shook his head. This was not a matter for Men to be concerned about yet and he needed to keep that knowledge to himself. They had time to prepare and to find strength in the east. Duinhir was too far away to render immediate assistance, and if it came to an attack, he would have his own hands full. Thranduil knew he needed to start preparing his realm now or regret it later.

"It is quite simple." He turned around, glanced at Bard sitting alert and watchful. "When the lake burned and Smaug fell, time started moving again here in the east. With Orcs and Dwarves passing through our lands, our borders need strengthening and what trade we conduct is endangered. Now with the Dwarves back in their Mountain, we can expect more movements in these lands. I need this area to be stable. You and your people might provide that."

For a long moment, Bard seemed to think about those words. Then his expression hardened and he said quietly, "So you want to ream us piecemeal between you and the Dwarves? That's a lot of effort you went to just for that."

Rolling his eyes, Thranduil shook his head. "Now why would I do this? Look at me." The words were infused with just enough power to make them resonate and when Bard did, it was with stubbornness. "Our people have fought at each other's side for generations back to when Men first woke in this world, you fought at mine just days ago. Dale was our main trading partner as long as it stood and I would have that again, if you did not refuse my help at every turn. With three strong forces here in the east, all of our people will be safer."

If Bard refused his help he would still supply aid to the people, but it would be a blow to Thranduil's eastern flank in the long run. He wasn't sure how they had come to the point where they needed to argue about the sheer existence of an alliance at all, when the first thing Bard had done was join his forces to Thranduil's. 

The air between them grew tense until Bard exhaled noisily, looked away and then back up. "You're risking your life because you want an alliance."

"I want my people to be safe. I am willing to keep my allies safe. But it is your decision." Thranduil disliked speeches of any kind. His Elves were used to his pronouncements to be as short and succinct as possible, when they were necessary at all. He also understood why Bard needed an explanation, though; he, too, carried responsibility for his people now. 

Another minute passed and the man nodded. "I accept. What's the next step?"

Thranduil allowed himself a silent sigh of relief, smiled. "We will wait for spring. You will get a chance to start working with the Dwarves and hopefully you will make some progress before streams of people start looking for a fortune here."

"You mean because the dragon is dead?"

"Yes." Thranduil sat back down. "A lot of people will come looking for gold, many of them will be disappointed. You need to be prepared for your population to swell up, and maybe not in the way you want it to. If you need to, you can call on me for aid and I will send reinforcements Tauriel will know how to work with. For now we will wait if your own forces are enough, along with the contingents that will accompany the supply crews."

Bard chewed on his bottom lip in thought. "What do I do then?"

"Keep your core population tight, try to integrate the newcomers. It's all you can do. One more thing." Bard looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Since we will not finalise our alliance here, I need … assurances." The man's eyes narrowed. "For this winter, I will take the orphans and the infirm with me. And your girls."

"No." It was a very decisive, extremely quick answer. One Thranduil completely understood and one he had expected. And one he couldn't accept.

"Yes. Remember to lead by example."

Bard shot out of his chair and came towards him, but Thranduil refused to rise to it. "These are my children you speak of, not some goods you can trade for promises!"

"I am well aware of this." It was the sensible thing to do, and Bard would understand this if he could get beyond his parental rage. "This is a refugee camp. Do you know what happens to young women in refugee camps?"

Eyes blazing with shock and fury, Bard said. "I can protect them!"

"You cannot. And you should not have to. You do not have to; Sigrid and Tilda will be safe, warm and healthy in my realm. It is less than half a day's ride on a good horse, you are welcome to visit them at any time." This was the fulcrum now, and Thranduil knew it. "This is not the place to be for them right now. They can return when Dale is habitable and safe, but if you, the Lord of this city, entrusts his precious daughters to the Elvenking, your citizens will trust us as well." Bard took another breath, but Thranduil got up suddenly and was right in his face. "I know all your arguments; I am a father and I just had to send my child away on an uncertain journey. It was necessary, though. This is necessary, too. You know I am right, no matter what you claim. They will be safe, I give you my word."

He thought of Legolas, alone on his way to Imladris and hoped he was safe.

Still his promise was probably what made Bard give in. Thranduil didn't know how much he knew about Elves, but he must know they didn't give their word lightly. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes, bowed his head. Thranduil reached out and rested his fingers on the nape of his neck. Momentarily Bard startled at the unexpected contact, but then his muscles relaxed fractionally. "You have my word," Thranduil said into his ear, only for him to hear.

Bard nodded and remained quiet for a long while. When he finally did say something, his voice was quiet. "What about Bain?"

"He is your heir," Thranduil told him, making sure his voice was gentle yet commanding. "He belongs with you at least until he is old enough to hold his own."

He exerted gentle pressure with his fingers, trying to soothe away a hurt that couldn't be soothed, neither by time nor gestures. Finally, Bard stepped out of his personal space and raised his head. Thranduil's fingers slid away, and he nodded in acknowledgment; he too would have wanted time with his children now. 

"We are leaving in two days."

~*~

The rest of the day had been spent giving out orders and organising their forces for the march home. Thranduil was loathe to say his Elves had grown complacent with the fight over and nothing to do but perimeter duty, but many of them were reluctant to move. They sensed how much help the Men of Dale still needed before they would be able to take care of themselves. Thranduil knew this, his captains were the ones who had to deal with it, though.

Night had fallen and day broken again by the time someone scratched at the flap of his private tent and he bade them to enter. Bard looked miserable and bleary-eyed, holding a wooden box Thranduil had last seen during negotiations. He was dressed in wool and linen, fur and leather supplied from Elven stores; it was lordly enough to set him aside, but would serve him well this winter. "I don't think you ever told me why you have two tents."

"It would hardly serve to take my rest in plain sight of the enemy, would it?" Thranduil invited him to sit, but the man shook his head. 

Bard looked around at half-packed crates and stacks of paper. "You don't sleep either way."

"It is a matter of security." He sighed and adjusted his cloak. "Is there something you need?"

For a while they merely took each other's measure and for all the physical closeness between them in the past days, Thranduil felt more of a stranger than he had after first riding into Dale. Finally Bard smiled and stepped in closer. "Ever since my wife first got pregnant, I have lived my life for my children; they are the reason I stood for every harassment and every manipulation the Master meted out. My children were all that I had left. But I do know they will not come to harm in your care, I only wish there was an alternative."

The admission cost him visibly, as did the memory associated with loss, and Thranduil closed himself against his own recollections coming to the surface. They had a time and a place, and this was not it. Instead, he remained still until the man had wrestled the crest of his emotions into submission. Shaking his head, Bard eventually looked at him, as if he had said everything he needed to say between them.

Looking at him earnestly, Thranduil cupped his cheek, letting his fingers once more rest against his spine, leaned in to kiss him. Thranduil found himself being pulled against Bard by an arm around his waist; he could feel the warmth of him through their clothing, the leanness of times without enough food and muscle from hard work in spite of that. This was not between them as lords to their people but as two people of Edain and Eldar. 

When the kiss ended, Bard kept Thranduil pulled close to him and Thranduil rested their foreheads together. 

"I will miss that warm bed."

It made him chuckle and say equally quiet, "I should hope you will miss more than just that."

"Quite," Bard answered and pressed one more brief kiss to his lips before letting him go. Instead he brought the wooden box he had with him into focus. "I want to give you something."

Curious Thranduil frowned and stepped back as Bard opened the box. Within a mass of emeralds green as grass—many of them cut to show their lustre—was nestled into a bronze setting. His eyes snapped up to Bard's, who shrugged. "Balin called it the Necklace of Girion, apparently it belonged to him before the coming of Smaug. They wanted to give it back as my heirloom."

Stepping closer, Thranduil reached out to stroke careful fingers over the gems. There must be hundreds of them in varying sizes, the largest of them completely free of inclusions of any kind. "And you would give these to me?"

"What use do I have for jewels in this place?" Bard sounded resigned, but a smile coloured his voice. "Consider them a pledge of my friendship, if you won't take them as payment for all you have been doing for us."

Indeed, Thranduil would consider it an insult if Bard tried to pay him back for aid rendered in times of need. Instead of pointing this out though, however, he merely tilted his head in acknowledgement. "I appreciate your gift, Bard of Dale. I will treasure your friendship and name you Elf-friend."

With a smile and an almost perfectly executed bow, Bard handed him the box and stepped away. For that moment they were Lord and King, allies but not quite equals. Then Bard's expression softened and Thranduil smiled in turn to see him off. Words were not necessary and when the Lord of Dale had taken his leave, Thranduil turned back to put his papers in order.


	2. Chapter 2

Tilda was crying when they made ready to leave the next morning, but her sister held on to her so she wouldn't fall out of the saddle. They were taking roughly fifty people with them, mostly orphaned children, a few sick elderly who would not survive the winter in Dale, and many young women, some pregnant. While their labour would probably be missed in a city in the middle of rebuilding, the caution of the Elvenking seemed to have spread through the camp. When the winter was over Bard would have to find surrogate parents for the children, in the meantime Thranduil would spread them through the villages. His people would give them shelter and care for them.

He had put the girls on a horse as befit their new status, although it had taken a long moment for Sigrid to find her balance. Now she was holding the reins and her sister, and even if she would have wanted to be upset, she didn't have the capacity for it.

"Da, please take care of yourself, and of Bain," she pleaded, a miserable look on her face. Thranduil reached out and quieted the horse with a few gentle words so it was easier for her.

"That's not fair," her brother protested, "I can take care of myself!"

Sigrid smiled despite her misery. "Sure, Bain, let's see who mends your clothes now."

Bard's smile was indulgent at his children's antics, then he stepped up and touched his daughters' legs. They'd said their goodbyes in private, Thranduil knew, this was the display for the people of Esgaroth and Dale. "Be good, the two of you. I don't want to hear complaints."

When he stepped back, Thranduil looked over the remnants of his army, the wagons packed with people and saw everything was in order. When he was certain they were ready to march, he glanced once more at Bard, who swallowed hard and looked even more pitiful than his eldest daughter. 

"King Thranduil, we are indebted to you and your generosity."

"Lord Bard of Dale, I bid you farewell for now. You are welcome as guest in my halls at your own leave." He wheeled his horse around and called over his shoulder, "If you require our aid, send a thrush!"

"What? What do you mean?"

But Thranduil didn't dignify that with a response, just smiled and heard the army start to move at his back. When the train was moving in its entirety and Thranduil settled for a few hours of riding, Sigrid asked behind him, "My Lord, what was that?"

"Ride up here," he told her and waited until she had nudged the horse enough to catch up to him. "It is part of your heritage. Your father will figure it out when he needs to."

She glanced at him in calculation, but then let it go. Tilda was still quietly crying and Thranduil called some sparrows and tits to alight on the horse's mane to distract her, though he cautioned her not to reach out and touch. It seemed to worked for she stared at them with not little fascination. Her sister shot him a grateful smile and she continued to distract the younger girl. 

It had been a long time since Legolas had been young and children had lived in Thranduil's halls. However, he was old enough to have seen many children grow up, so keeping two that were half-grown already occupied should pose no major challenge. They had a lot to learn; he wanted them to be able to defend themselves by the time they returned to their father, and if they lived in his realm, they should learn enough of the language to get by. 

Out of all the children's quarters, Legolas' was most lived in due to recent occupation, and the youngest of his sons had spent more time with the guard in the last few centuries than hoarding possessions. It would do, for the time being. Thranduil had already sent word for a second bedroom to be made up and everything would be ready for their return late that night. The army itself could have made it in less time, but travelling with children meant rests to accommodate for them.

~*~

Red and brown leaves had started to fall heavily during Thranduil's absence and when he now looked over the tree tops, they were almost bare. The seasons were passing and the birds were speaking of cold and deprivations to come, the stags were roaring for the favour of does. Thranduil could feel another strong winter ahead; they'd had many of those in recent years, and the summers had not been as warm as once they had been.

Sigrid and Tilda had been introduced as daughters of the Lord of Dale who would—for pure definition's sake—be fostered in the Woodland Realm for the time being. He knew his people shot him curious glances, as such relations with the outside blatantly contradicted previous orders, but none of them knew what had been set in motion yet. Their time of mere vigilance was coming to an end.

"My Lord," a voice said behind him and when he turned, he found Sigrid standing in the solar, right in the door leading out to the overhang. She was dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for her, although she looked decidedly uncomfortable. A middle way would have to be found. 

He stepped towards her, maintaining a respectful distance, then looked around with a frown. "Sigrid. Are you here by yourself?"

She shrugged and lowered her eyes. "It wasn't hard to find."

Raising his eyebrows, he considered her. Most Elves who first entered his service got lost finding their way around; even Legolas, who had grown up here, had gotten lost a time or two when he was a child. For her to find her way all by herself after a mere day was … impressive. "Join me," he told her and made his way inside. "Wine?"

She hesitated. "We drank ale at home, because the water from the Long Lake…"

Would not be palatable for a people that was susceptible to disease. "Watered wine, then. Our water is quite clean." He poured her a cup, going light on the wine and heavy on the water. She reached for it reluctantly. "Where is your sister?"

"I left her with some of the children, she knows them. Someone is watching them, he works with Galion. I came to ask— What is it we're supposed to do here?" She took a ritual sip of her drink and then used it to hold on to something. What a nervous thing she was. Maybe it was understandable though, her world had been turned upside down twice in less than two weeks and he could afford to show her kindness. 

He draped his cloak over the back of a chair. "You are here to remove you from harm, as you must well know. As for your duties, I would ask you to use this opportunity to learn. Rían must have found you by now?"

The girls had grown up with only their father taking care of them, but Thranduil had figured considering their age and the new surroundings, a woman to teach them the language and the Elvish ways might be appropriate. Tauriel had noted they had responded well to her. 

Sigrid nodded, still looking a bit helpless. 

"What is it you are asking for, Sigrid?"

She sighed. "My Lord, at home I would mend clothes, keep the house clean, make sure to make the most out of the food Da was bringing, make Tilda dress warm enough and teach her not to fall in the water and that Bain knew not to get himself into trouble. Here... My Lord, I have nothing to do, unless you want me to scrub the floors—"

Staring at her, he shook his head. "Most certainly not!"

She subsided. "In that case, my Lord, give me something to do. Please."

He considered her, the way her hair—freed from its eternal plait, washed and combed out more—framed her face, her flushed cheeks and the defiant expression in her eyes that was very much like her father. The Eldar didn't lose their way, they found it in their long life by different means, but the Edain with their short lifespans were far more purpose bound. 

"Very well," he told her and took the cup from her, set it next to his own on the table. "I planned on introducing the two of you slowly to your life here, but if you insist. Can you read?"

Blinking, she was taken aback, then nodded. "Westron only," she amended. 

"Time will take care of that," he told her. "Come, I think you will like this."

Soon she followed him down stairs and through the hallways; he wasn't worried about her not remembering the way later on. For a moment, their footsteps were the only sounds, until she said, "I did not expect Elves to live underground."

"The villages are mostly up above," he told her, "and we can still use the sunlight here. It's very defensible. King Thingol in Doriath had his halls underground."

The girl took that in and kept her own counsel until they reached the doors. Both guards inclined their heads at Thranduil and opened. He tried to see his library as if he had never before, but they had been collecting written works since his father had first settled in the Wood and he wasn't able to. Sigrid's eyes, however, grew large and she turned several times in an attempt to take it all in. Sunlight relayed by mirrors and magic streamed inside the room, illuminating several stories of shelves. 

He smiled at her. "Only a fraction of it is in Westron, you will have to go looking. But you are welcome to come here as you see fit." 

Mutely she nodded, still trying to take it all in. 

"Do you want more?" he inquired.

"Books?" she breathed. He decided to introduce her to the second library when she had digested the one they were currently standing on.

He tried to get her attention and smiled when she looked at him. "I had something else in mind that you might be more familiar with."

That was how he brought her to the practice range, although she didn't look too impressed. Well, she was the daughter of the Dragonslayer. "Has your father shown you how to shoot?"

She shook her head. "He doesn't take us into the woods. Well, Bain sometimes, but not us girls. He says it is too dangerous." 

Bard had good reasons to want to keep his children safe and he had done an admirable job so far. Still, if they were here, they might as well learn what they could from Thranduil's people. He gauged her reaction as he handed her a bow; her hands ran over it with practiced care, testing the material. She was obviously unfamiliar with the design when she tested the string, and Thranduil remembered that Bard used a long bow. 

"Cúthalion," he said and a moment later the young archer appeared behind him. "This young lady should learn how to shoot. See to it. You will also teach her sister, when the time comes."

"Yes, my Lord," Cúthalion said and vanished to find a practice bow. Thranduil had seen him take her measure, consider her size and strength, he would find something for her 

She glanced at Thranduil, a question in her eyes. 

"Cúthalion is one of my best captains and most capable archers, he will be a good teacher for you. You may ask him anything, he will help you when he can."

Nodding, she carefully set the bow aside. "My Lord … I should go find my sister. I think she should eat something." 

Someone would have made sure the children had enough food and water available, but the habits of a lifetime were hard to break and he nodded at her. Before she could leave the range entirely however, he called, "Sigrid." 

She turned. "My Lord?"

"You do not need to ask for permission unless it is something you know very well you should not do. You may also drop my title in private." It was well and right that his people paid him the proper respect and saw guests do so also, but the girls were going to live in the family wing and there he was not first the King of the Woodland Realm. 

Her expression was mildly startled for a moment, but then she nodded and gave him a smile. "Yes, my— Yes. Thank you."

~*~

It took little more than a week for Bard to make his first appearance in the Woodland Realm. A finch came to Thranduil and told him about the stranger riding a horse from the Elvenking's own stables towards the gates. He dismissed the document he had been working on and called in Galion.

"Lord Bard is on his way, go and collect his daughters. They should be with Rían, try the large library." After just a few short days, a rhythm had already developed which included language lessons in the morning that were often joined by some of the other children. The library had become a favourite spot to have those lessons; it was bright and offered plenty of space without seeming too big. Rían had coloured herself impressed with the speed the children were picking up what she taught them. 

Galion nodded and vanished to do his King's bidding. Thranduil blotted the paper and left a weight on top before standing up. He placed the crown on his head as he made his way through his halls, throwing his coat over his shoulder to settle the fabric. The throne room was still empty by the time he arrived and he sat, looking up to see if one of the birds had arrived with word from the west. The passes had frozen by now, but Legolas should long have made it past them. But the large space above him was empty, the only sound the rushing water of the river and the echo of his guards singing marching songs in the distance.

It was Feren who finally led Bard towards the throne and Thranduil got up to bid him welcome. "A star shines on the hour of our meeting," he proclaimed in Sindarin and Bard looked at him dubiously. 

"If you just declared war on me, let me know, because then I didn't get it." He looked around. "I don't want to be rude, but where are my daughters?"

Thranduil smiled. "It falls to the King to greet esteemed guests. Or not so esteemed, in the case of Thorin Oakenshield." He glanced over Bard's shoulder and saw Galion escort the girls, who broke out into a run when they recognised their father's figure. 

"Da!" Tilda screamed and Sigrid was hot on her heels. 

"Sigrid, Tilda!" Bard bent down and pulled them both to him. "I missed you."

Tears were freely streaming down Tilda's cheeks and Sigrid, too, had unshed tears in her eyes. It made Thranduil wonder where Legolas was and whether he had already made it to Imladris or even beyond. After a moment he shook it off and regarded the reunion in front of him.

"You have the run of my halls," he told them. Sigrid nodded at him while sniffling, and he went back to work on his writing for the moment. Someone would inform him if he was needed. 

On the way to his study, Valacar stopped him. "My Lord!" 

With a sigh, Thranduil turned around. "What is it?"

As the new captain of the guard, Valacar bore the same responsibilities as Tauriel. So far he had done his tasks, but up until now no challenge had presented itself. However, Thranduil knew Tauriel's absence was weighing heavily on the guards. She had proven herself time and again in the past, her parting had been a blow the integrity of command. 

"We found another nest, we have no idea how it grew that big in this short time," Valacar said, sounding angry. When Thranduil frowned at him, he continued, "South of the road, half a league from where we picked up those Dwarves."

"Destroy it," Thranduil told him and took up his step again. 

"My Lord—"

Thranduil wheeled around. "I want it destroyed. Do it now."

Bowing, Valacar kept his own counsel. 

For the moment, keeping their borders secure would not present a problem. However, the shadow had been creeping ever further northward and the influence of the evil that had taken Amon Lanc had become more pervasive. More spiders that were hungrier and spun their webs across more of the forest. Trees were dying or at the very least not awakening from slumber, and the tributary from the mountains was spoiled. Thranduil could feel it sinking into the very land itself a little more with each passing month. 

He banished the feeling and kept his stride. He would send a bird east for better news from the settlement there. 

Hours later he heard steps on the stairs leading down to his study and he knew it was Bard before the man ever made an appearance. He then stood in the middle of the room, in front of the shallow pool, looking around.

"I should have known from those tents you would be living as befits a king," Bard said and crouched down to look at the water. "Please tell me it's not a bathtub."

Thranduil snorted quietly and got up from his chair. "It is not a bathtub, it is a pool of contemplation." At the raised eyebrow from Bard, he shook his head. "Age bestows many gifts upon my people. Have your daughters shown you around?"

With a nod and a last look at the water, Bard straightened again. "They look well. Thank you."

"If it lightens your heart, I am glad to provide." He eyed him for a moment. "Are you staying?"

"Sigrid asked if I was staying for supper, so I will, if I may impose on you. She even sent me here to get you to make me stay." He smiled and shook his head fondly. 

Thranduil had made it a habit over the last few days to at least have one meal per day with the two girls; he had made sure they would be kept busy over the first few weeks, to make the transition easier so he didn't see them often. Still, at least this way he could keep an eye on their progress and he could judge for himself what their mood was and whether they were healthy.

"Did she say that?"

Bard laughed. "No. But I know my daughters. And I would like to bring them to bed. It will be enough if I return tomorrow."

Nodding, Thranduil moved towards the stairs, when Bard hesitated, still looking at the pool of water. He could not offer anything to him, so he kept quiet and just waited for Bard to work through whatever was going through his head. After a moment the mood was broken and Bard followed him up the stairs again. 

"You know," Bard said after a moment, "that is a fetching crown."

Laughing, Thranduil kept climbing the stairs and said without turning around, "In case I have to point it out to you: in this place there is a real bed."

"I was counting on it," Bard answered, a smirk in his voice.

Thranduil's presence at supper served purely ceremonial purposes, he would just as readily have left father and daughters on their own. Accordingly he kept his own part of the conversation to a minimum to give Bard the space he needed. It helped that Tilda's mouth was always like a waterfall, barely ever stopping. 

Both girls were much more lively and animated than Thranduil had seen them in the past days, with their father here now, maybe that was to be expected. At least until Sigrid started yawning.

"All right," Bard pronounced, pushed away from the table. "It's past the time when both of you should be in bed."

That was the best cue Thranduil would get and he bid both girls a good night before he let them all go. The room grew quiet, though he knew some of his people were hovering to clear the table. 

Eventually he retired to his private solar. Time passed, but eventually he heard voices and put the book down, only to see Bard reach the top of the stairs a moment later. Their eyes met and with a nod Thranduil invited him to join him on the cushioned bench. When he sat down Thranduil put his book on the table and handed the man the second cup of wine he had poured. 

"I would have expected your guards knew you had a guest," Bard said conversationally and then took another look at him and frowned. "You truly changed your clothes?"

Drawing up a knee clad in dark breeches to better look at the man, Thranduil glanced down at himself and the silver-threaded kaftan, shrugged. He saw Bard's eyes follow the movement hidden behind another sip of wine. "My guards protect their King. I can see you talked your way around them."

"Being the Lord of Dale seems to open new doors." The answer sounded tired. "I still don't know how all of this has happened to me."

With a sigh, Thranduil swirled his own drink in his cup. He needed to put that line of thought down once and for all; from the beginning Bard had been the only option. "I asked Sigrid about your standing in Esgaroth. It seems you always stood for the people and they knew to thank you."

Leaning his arm on the back of the bench, Bard looked at him. "Did she also tell you what that got me?"

"Retribution, I would assume. You are not in Esgaroth anymore, though, serving a despotic Master." When the man nodded, he continued, "Bard, Lord of Dale."

The look he got in return told him that Bard knew exactly what he was trying to do. Then he dropped the topic. "I met that archer who teaches her. Is he good?"

An amused smile on his face, Thranduil readjusted his cloak. "He's one of my best. Legolas used to have competitions with him before he had set his sights on the guard."

"Who won?" Bard asked and reached out to gently separate a strand of Thranduil's hair and wind it around his fingers.

For a long moment, Thranduil followed the motion before directing his eyes forward again. "Half the time, he let Legolas win. Mind you, my son was young then and Cúthalion was his friend, not his superior. Aldarion on the other hand always had a more competitive nature." The look Bard shot him was gauging more than anything, then he seemed to dismiss something. "Any other comments on how I am treating your daughters?"

"Not right now, no." Bard got more comfortable on the cushions, scooting closer in the process.

Thranduil nodded. "The Dwarves are keeping their bargain?"

"They assessed the amount of work and material needed; part of the question is where it should come from, excepting debris. Isn't Tauriel reporting this?" The Mountain quarry should deliver enough stone, especially when the Dwarves would start to haul ore again. 

Shaking his head, Thranduil put away his cup. "Tauriel is not under my command right now, her reports are for you alone, unless you decide to share them. I do hope you will feel … comfortable to come to me for advice."

"Indeed?" Bard leaned forward, his tone slightly teasing. "Who else could it be?"

"Well, there is always Dáin. I would not consider it wise to go to a Dwarf for answers not related to caverns and the relative merit of attracting dragons. Still, it is your decision." At Bard's raised eyebrow, Thranduil smirked. "Since you are here though… Are you in need of advice?"

"Well." Bard looked down where Thranduil's knee was still resting on the cushions and then further along his leather-clad calves. "Maybe there is one thing."

"Oh?"

The man quirked a lopsided smile. "I remember you mentioned something about a bed."

"I may have," Thranduil answered and got off the bench, letting his cloak drop off his shoulders in the process. Bard's eyes followed him until he stood and Thranduil reached out one hand to him. "How about you assist me in finding it?"

"But it would be my genuine pleasure," Bard answered and let himself be pulled up, the momentum of which Thranduil used to haul him in close enough for a kiss. "If you think it is worth the way there."

"Oh, it is." With that, Thranduil pushed him away gently and turned around to head towards the stairs. "You have yet to experience the amenities of Eldar hospitality, after all."

The only times Thranduil allowed himself to be in a hurry were during war and even then he measured his strides and projected an unconcerned air unless the situation was a true emergency. And so now, too, he led Bard through his private quarters with a dignified pace, which did not prevent Bard from commenting when they finally did stand in front of Thranduil's bed, "For someone who doesn't sleep this is quite … expansive."

"Just because I do not require sleep does not mean I do not enjoy it," he answered and started to free the hooks and loops of his clothing. 

Bard's eyes were on the movements of his fingers, pupils blown wide in the dim illumination the single lamp in the far corner provided for his benefit; Thranduil would have done with only the moonlight spilling in through the mechanism of mirrors. Eventually, Bard dragged his gaze up again and he cleared his throat. "And other activities, I presume?"

The thought caught Thranduil by surprise and he found his hands had stilled in the middle of sliding out of his shirt. He deliberately continued the motion and locked gazes with Bard before pulling him forward by his tunic. "You do know very little of our ways," he simply said and stilled any further questions by pressing their mouths together. 

They did end up on the bed only a short while later, both of them naked and Thranduil was running his hands over Bard's body. He was looking for—and found—several hidden injuries that he soothed and repaired unnoticed until one particular spot on Bard's back just beneath the rib cage. Blood had pooled close to the surface in a spread that was already fading from purple to blue and riding for hours couldn't have been comfortable. Thranduil felt whole strands of muscles uncoil beneath his fingers and Bard jerked away from his hand. "What was that?"

"I should be the one asking." Thranduil searched his face, stroked a soothing hand along his flank. "What was that?"

"Icy stairs and a fall. I didn't want to ask Tauriel to use kingsfoil, I want to keep that resource available if we need it. And here you did it, just like that." His voice sounded wondrous, even when he'd seen Thranduil heal lesser injuries before. 

"You are on my land now," Thranduil growled and leaned in, his hair falling around them until Bard threaded in one hand, pushed them back. He only had a token understanding of the strength the Eldar held, especially in their own bases of power. The complete picture would only weave itself slowly with continued association between them. It also meant, though that his motives were nothing but what he claimed them to be and Thranduil couldn't deny that this held an allure all by itself.

For a moment their eyes locked and then Bard gathered the momentum to roll them over and his thigh landed—in a not very accidental coincidence—between Thranduil's legs. "We don't really need to talk about that now, do we?"

"By all means," Thranduil drawled and let himself be pushed into the mattress, dragging the fingers of one hand lazily over the muscles of Bard's stomach, feeling them jump, "show me what else you had in mind."

With a smirk he did and Thranduil had no trouble admitting that it was a much better use of their time than talking.

He roused slightly, a long time later, when a warm and pliant body rolled against him and it was only from the sudden indrawn breath that he knew Bard was awake, as his body stayed in utter relaxation. "You do sleep," came the whisper.

"Of course I do," he whispered back and threw an arm over Bard's waist before rolling half on top of him to get them both a few more hours of said sleep. Bard needed the rest and as for Thranduil, he had decided to enjoy having someone in bed with him. 

The next morning promised snow later that day and Bard would be best served to be back in Dale by then. Before that, however, they made a point of also visiting the nearest village that had taken in refugees from Dale. Both Sigrid and Tilda were with them, each having taken hold of one of their father's hands. 

"I know you said your people could take care of those children, but this is more than I expected," Bard said after observing for a while and talking to some of the young women barely older than his daughters that had come out of Esgaroth alive. 

The youngest child was three years old and Thranduil knew no child that age should lose their parents. "The Eldar like children," he told Bard as he watched that very child run around laughing. 

A few moments later Bard said, "Elf babies don't exist? Do you just spring from your parents fully formed?"

With a practiced flourish, Thranduil settled the folds of his stole more comfortably around his shoulders. Sigrid glanced at both of them curiously, as if that question hadn't occurred to her yet. He took a while to consider how to answer before he finally settled on, "We live in troublesome times, as you well know. The lifespan of the Edain is not receptive of this, but since we are forever bound to this world we Eldar prefer to bring our children into it during times of peace. Our borders are secure, yet the shadow lying over these lands is creeping ever northwards. It is also part of the reason why Duinhir took some of our people east, to start an outside settlement. It is our hope that by the time he will rule this kingdom, peace will have found us once more."

"Rule— What?" Bard stared at him with more than a little incredulity. 

"Duinhir?" Sigrid echoed, eyes narrowed. 

Thranduil glanced down at her, but his answer was directed at them both. "My eldest son. He will return here … if the time comes." If and when he felt weary and needed to sail west, or if he was slain on the battlefield as his father had been and so many before him in Doriath and the Havens of Sirion.

"What about Legolas?" Bard asked, voice faint with surprise.

Thranduil looked up, frowned. "What about him?"

Bard shook his head in an obvious sign of surrender and soon after that it was time for him to take his leave. Sigrid held her sister by the shoulders to prevent her from running after their father and then half turned around to him. "You have another son, don't you?"

Thranduil looked down to her with an amused half smile. "Aldarion. How do you know this?"

"Cúthalion told me." She didn't even look at him when she said it, but she sounded incredibly smug. "When are you telling Da?"

"When that time comes, I think he will be able to figure it out," he told her before leading the girls back inside. 

Snow started falling in wet and heavy flakes in the afternoon with a front moving in from the west. The sky was overcast and remained steel grey for the rest of the the day and neither moon nor stars were out that night. Yet for some reason Thranduil remained restless; his gaze wandered away from the letters he was reading and the view outside his solar did nothing to put his mind at ease.

A sense of wrongness kept him from sleep, and following that feeling he soon stood in front of Legolas' old quarters now occupied by Bard's girls. The sounds of someone's erratic breathing came to his ears and he silently opened the door. A quiet sob came from the right hand bedroom and when he opened the door, a lamp was still burning and Tilda sat in her bed, knees drawn up to her chest and her forehead leaned against them. Both hands were pressed over her mouth, her cheeks were red, and tears were flowing down. 

"Tilda," he called softly and closed the door behind him as silently as he opened it before walking to her side. "What is it?"

She shook her head, cried harder still. No injuries stood out, he couldn't determine a source of pain and when he came closer he also couldn't detect any fevers that Men were so susceptible for. 

"Are you hurt?" he asked, but she shook her head. "Do you want me to get your sister?" But she only shook her head even harder and he knew she could have just crossed the hallway if she had wanted Sigrid. 

"Very well," he said eventually and sat down on the mattress, close enough to look her over but not so close she would feel cornered. A sob broke through the barrier of her hands and he worried for a moment that she wouldn't be able to breathe anymore. He raised an arm to check again and make sure she didn't have a fever when she practically threw herself at him and wrapped her arms tightly around him, sobbing against his chest. 

For long heartbeats, Thranduil froze. His muscles tensed, his breath caught, his thoughts came to a halt. For a little girl, Tilda was surprisingly strong and held on for dear life.

"Da." Her sobs were shaking her now, although she still tried to keep them quiet. 

Thranduil forced air back into his lungs and his muscles relaxed. Until now he'd kept a careful distance between himself and the girls, giving them space to find out where they belonged in his halls and waiting for them to tell him how they wanted to be treated. Thranduil firmly believed in maintaining space between himself and others like most Eldar did. While he knew that this was unlike the behaviour of Man, so far the girls had done so as well. Yet he had always treasured his own children, remembered sitting with them after nightmares, and especially the hard months with Legolas after his mother had died. 

Carefully as not to startle her, he placed a hand on Tilda's back and started gently stroking in order to soothe her. With his other hand he wiped tears from her cheeks, murmured words of comfort in Sindarin because they sounded wrong in Westron. In small, slow increments she calmed down, or at least she stopped shaking and sobbing, though she still held onto him. After a long while, he simply hugged her back, careful not to hurt her and rested his chin lightly on her hair. 

When her breathing had evened out a little, he asked, "Do you miss your father?"

She nodded against his chest and snuffled before muttering, "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he told her. "Missing your parents is the most normal thing in the world. I know your father also misses you every day."

"I only have my Da," she said and let go of him a little. He let her go to get a good look at her; her face was still streaked with tears and he wiped them away with his thumbs.

"I know," he told her, not quite sure where this was going. From what Bard had said he had drawn some conclusions, but he had never asked for details. 

She thought that over and her next words seemed to come out of nowhere, catching him off guard. "Legolas only has you, too."

He didn't remember talking with her about Legolas, but of course she had been there that day when he and Tauriel had fought off the Orcs, and he knew the way children caught information left and right and came up with the right picture. Smiling at her, he stroked over her mussed hair once more to tame it. He didn't think it would have merit to talk about the dead right now so he said, "Yes, but I found Legolas at the cabbage patch."

A grin made it through her tears and she wiped her nose. "I'm better now."

He nodded. "Do you want me to stay?" She thought about that for a moment and then shook her head, but reached out to take one of his hand where it rested on the bedding. He squeezed hers in return and then made her lie down. "Good night," he told her and turned the wick down to the lowest so it would only give off a faint glow. 

Outside her door he took a few careful breaths of his own and waited for the breathing inside to even out into a pattern that signalled sleep. Then he meant to make his way back to his own quarters when he heard noises from Sigrid's room. Before she could come to the door, however, he stepped inside. 

"Thranduil?" she asked. He could see her sitting at the edge of her bed, hand reached out to turn up the lamp.

"Yes," he told her and stepped towards the bed, and she refrained from making the room brighter. "Go back to sleep. Tilda is a little homesick. Don't worry, she's sleeping."

When she sighed and kept sitting up, he sat down as well. "Thanks. I expected it, I just—"

In a moment of inspiration drawn from his experience with Tilda just minutes ago he reached out and took her hands in his. She startled for a second and then smiled. "Your father may not be here at all times, but you may consider this your home away from home. For as long as you want to. Go to sleep now."

He disentangled their hands and got up to go to the door. Before he could open it, however, Sigrid said quietly in Sindarin, "My heart is glad."

~*~

On the morning of Eruchermé Thranduil had sequestered himself into the library and was leafing through an index in search of an obscure reference he had encountered the night before. Over the past few days he had been restless, ever since the bird had come from Imladris with a message from Elrond. Apparently Legolas had passed by the settlement on his way west and found the son of Arathorn by himself, only to be brought to Imladris on a detour for the Midwinter festival. It was … unsettling. There was little love lost between Elrond and himself since the disaster of the Last Alliance, but both of them had lived through too much bloodshed for renewed escalation.

He looked up when a book was laid on the table across from him with a deliberate thumping sound and Sigrid slid into the opposite chair. She was decked out in a blue silk dress with silver thread and her hair was plaited in Eldar fashion, ready for the feast in the evening. 

"Why is there no book on Eldar customs and traditions?" she asked bluntly, looking at him with bright eyes.

Folding his hands on the table, he looked back. "Do you expect us to record our very lives in a language not our own?"

For a while she considered that. "Not necessarily. Would I find something in Sindarin?"

The tomes of the Loremasters were gathering dust on a shelf in the smaller library, but he knew this wasn't what she was asking for. "Why would we write a guide on being Eldar when we teach our children by example?"

"Why do you write down anything?" she retorted and looked around pointedly at the shelves and rows of books surrounding them. 

He acknowledged that point with a tilt of his head. "How about you do it?" She looked up startled. "You live here now, you are welcome to contribute, provided you do not take it away should you leave here."

"I couldn't, I…" She trailed off and looked away. 

Leaning forward, he considered what she was truly saying; it wasn't her place, she was not part of the same world as him, she was not adequate, she was supposed to leave come spring. None of that was a true argument, as the children Thranduil had brought with him as well as both of Bard's daughters had been firmly integrated into the lives of their caretakers. Most of them were too young to understand the implications, but the older ones were learning, and so the people of Dale would have to. Generations ago they had been firmly allied with Thranduil's realm as well as the Dwarves, aware of their ways and traditions and their power. As far as Thranduil was concerned, this was how it would be for generations to come.

"Sigrid," he said and when she looked at him he kept his expression stern. "Write it down. Do it in Sindarin. That's an order. My people will tell you what you may know, there are few secrets and you will only learn them if you need to."

It spoke for her that she didn't look away then, merely thought over what she had been told. "In Sindarin, then."

"Westron is not a language that adequately captures the nature of my people. Do you not agree?" He knew he spoke with all the natural arrogance of his position, but that was just one more lesson she would have to learn. He would protect her and and support her in all avenues she wished, but while she walked his halls and enjoyed all the comforts and providences of the Woodland Realm, he was her ultimate authority. 

She lowered her eyes to the table. "I lack the experience, my Lord, but I will report on this." The use of his title was in blatant disregard of his own wishes and he quirked an eyebrow at that. One corner of her mouth rose the tiniest fraction in response. She very clearly was her father's daughter.

"See that you do." 

She took it as the dismissal it was and picked up her book again. Then she hesitated. "The snow is too high, isn't it?"

Disappointment was written on her face and he gentled his tone when he answered, "I fear it is, yes. You will still attend, I presume?"

Eruchermé was a day of feasting and of dance and the girls had hoped to be able to invite their father. While the same crews who brought goods into Dale and carried messages back and forth between father and daughters had reported that construction had begun and was continuing even through frost and snow, but regular travel was out of question now. The girls had hoped, but the day had arrived and it didn't seem feasible.

Sigrid nodded curtly. "I wouldn't miss it," she told him with a sad tinged smile and then turned around to leave him to his research. He looked after her and smiled, thinking he would loathe to see her go in spring.

~*~

Winter kept a tight hold on the lands, even when the first signs of spring should have been in the air. Cold kept a tight grip on the woods and snow muffled every sound and reflected it in odd ways, and while Thranduil's people were largely indifferent to the temperatures, the animals in the forest had a hard time finding enough forage.

The winter had brought several developments, though, and Thranduil still amused himself with the memory of the first thrush Bard had ever sent with a message. He had been out with Sigrid to show her how the horses were decked out and exercised in the winter months when the bird had alighted on his shoulder. Apparently Aldarion had passed by Dale and surprised Bard with his mere existence, which had triggered him to rant at the bird ending with the command to "take that to the Elvenking". 

"Why do I understand what it's saying?" Sigrid had asked with her eyes large with wonder.

Thranduil gently scratched the bird on the side of its head, which elicited a trill, and sent it off with a return message that Aldarion usually knew to behave himself before turning to his young charge. "They are magical thrushes," he told her, although her glance turned skeptical. He had no good way to tell her that in some distant corner of her ancestry must be a Silvan Elf, with little consequence to her family's life but a few perks that the Lords of Dale had always found useful. That was why he didn't. Instead he gently touched the leg of the horse they were next to and stroked downward. "Have a care for the hooves," he said, coming back to their original topic.

Sigrid's easy companionship with Cúthalion on the other hand was a joy to watch, and Thranduil had spent many an hour at the range watching the way her concentration and aim improved. The young archer occasionally corrected her, but after only these few weeks, she was able to hit a target left, right and center at a full out run. 

"I want to take her on a hunt," Cúthalion said at one point when he watched her take a target course while standing next to Thranduil. "Just a day, we will be back before sundown."

"Do you think it wise?" Thranduil asked, judging the speed at which she was firing arrows at the hay targets and found it slower than he would have expected in an Elf. In a child of Men however… 

"I think a practice run without foliage and with animals slowed by winter would be good for her," Cúthalion answered with a measured cadence that left the decision utterly up to Thranduil. If he hadn't been in Thranduil's service as long as he had, he might have called him out on it, but the young archer had proven time and again to be a good judge in regards to these things. "We could use the meat."

Nodding, Thranduil turned away to resume his own duties. "Do it. Prepare her and do not let harm come to her." Without having to see it, he knew Cúthalion bowed. 

They weren't back by sundown on hunting day. Usually that was nothing out of the ordinary, but Cúthalion was one of his most reliable people and he was not known to overestimate the ability of his hunters. Thranduil started to worry when they weren't back by supper.

Tilda apparently caught up on his mood and didn't even ask where her sister might be, just silently ate her food and left the table with barely more than two words spoken. 

When finally a commotion could be heard in the great entrance hall, Thranduil made his way up the stairs and waited. Eventually Sigrid appeared and spotted him immediately; she was streaked with dirt and clearly shaken, but she stepped up to him with a determined expression of her face. 

"I want a sword, and I want to learn how to use it," she told him, cold fury in her eyes.

He frowned and reached out to take something off her shoulder that seemed to flake off her clothing. It wrapped around his fingers and stuck. A cobweb. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, took a deep breath and her expression gentled, though not the look in her eyes. "No. I'm fine, I— I want to learn how to use a sword."

Inclining his head in acknowledgement, he used a finger to tilt her head to the side to check for any injury before he gently cupped her cheek to reassure her. "Of course. I will teach you myself. We start tomorrow."

Her answer was a smile before she hurried towards her chamber. To compose himself he took a breath before he thundered, "Cúthalion!"

It took too long for the young archer to appear and when he did, he also was dirt smeared and one of his sleeves was torn. "Would you care to tell me what has happened today?"

Cúthalion had the good grace to look contrite before his expression turned into the professional mask of a soldier. "Spiders, my Lord. Across our borders. We stayed in the territories Valacar determined to be safe, but we were surprised by three of them. I take full responsibility." He bowed deeper than someone with his position at court should. 

"Are they dead?" Thranduil asked coldly.

"Yes, my Lord."

Nodding, Thranduil dismissed him before calling him back. "How did she do?"

For a moment, Cúthalion eyed him with a practiced eye. "She is still alive. She also shot a stag through the neck."

The young Sinda took his last nod as the final dismissal it was. Thranduil held vigil in the entrance hall for a few more moments, listening to the sounds from the yards outside, fur and skin being cut and flesh being butchered for food. 

Where the bow came natural to Sigrid, the sword did not. Thranduil spent much of the next morning preventing her from making any moves that would end in suicide if she did them with steel instead of wood. It exhausted and frustrated her and he stopped their lesson after she had hit the floor for the third time. 

Tears stood in her eyes as he crouched down next to her. "You expected this to be easy."

"Easier than this," she answered and a tear of rage rolled down her cheek that she angrily brushed away. "Even Da made it look easy."

He considered that for a moment, tried to take her serious. She was very much an adult in many aspects already, but in others she was still a child. "Your father has fought his battles," he told her eventually. "You still have time for that."

Angrily wiping at her eyes, she got up. "Let's go on."

"No." He shook his head. "Reflect on what you learned today, rest, we will continue tomorrow."

Staring at him, she gnashed her teeth and stormed out of the room without another word. Thranduil wondered how Bard had dealt with this, but then the man might never have been in a position to do so, considering life had been decidedly different in Esgaroth.

Sigrid, however, was either better at compartmentalising than Thranduil's children had been or she didn't keep any grudges, for she sought him out that evening after supper. 

"You're talking to Da again in spring."

Puzzled, he looked up from the original report by Valacar; he had since demoted him and put Feren in his place, but they still needed to know how it had come to this almost fatal error. "As the Lord of Dale, yes." They needed to finalise that alliance on both their terms if they wanted it to last. 

She looked up at him. "Then this is the second time you're helping Dale."

Leaning back in his chair he glanced her over. "You looked at the histories."

Truth was, Thranduil had supported the settlement that had become Dale when it first looked like it might prosper from trade with the Dwarves. That folk had mined the Mountain for millennia, but the kingdom of Erebor was a far more recent establishment. Thranduil's people had long been forced northwards when Dale had become a tiny settlement little more than a village where Men made a living by farming the ground and keeping few animals, trading foodstuffs with the Dwarves. Thranduil had started to route some of his trades through the city to establish a counter force to the Dwarves in Erebor. Smart resource management by the most influential families had made it prosper and eventually, the family whose last scion had been Lord Girion of Dale had made the most of it. 

Sigrid nodded. "You will help?"

"I told your father I am willing to help my allies." Economically, he could create revenue streams that might influence the kind of people that would feel encouraged to settle in Dale, but in the end, it was up to Bard to manage daily proceedings. He would not promise the girl something that lay in the hands of the Lord of Dale, or that was a matter of a contract between that same Lord and the Elvenking. 

In answer she set her jaw and shook her head. "Why can't you just say yes?"

Raising an eyebrow at her, he couldn't help but smirk. "Your father says it's the propensity of Elves to be vague. Maybe you should ask him about it."

She rolled her eyes and rose from the table, taking her books with her, muttering something he ignored. She didn't see his smirk mellowing out into a fond smile before he sobered. True was, he and Bard needed to formalize the relationship between their realms if they wanted to make progress, but Thranduil had decided it was enough if he forced this matter come spring.

~*~

A thrush arrived on the day the first flowers signalled the winter's waning, with a formal invitation to visit Dale at the Elvenking's earliest convenience and to please bring the Lord of Dale's daughters along.

Three days later Thranduil rode into Dale, this time not with an army but merely two companies of guards under Feren's command. It was not the Dale of old, neither before nor after the attack of Smaug, but the construction and ringing of steel everywhere signalled very clearly that this was a city coming along well. He had known what to expect from the reports of the supply crews, but he was still well pleased.

He had not expected, however, to find not only Bard waiting for him but also Aldarion, who was holding a horse by its bridle. 

"The city of Dale greets the Elvenking," Bard called out, sketched a hasty bow and then turned to his daughters, who had ridden up on their horses and were now sliding off their backs with excitement. That left Thranduil to speak with his son and the human who was standing next to him, holding a second horse.

"Aldarion, I did not expect to find you here. Have you been here since midwinter?" He rode over to his son and came to a halt in front of him. His words had been in Sindarin, but then he noticed that the young man at Aldarion's side was apparently waiting for a cue of some kind. Aldarion merely shot him a glance before looking back up.

"When word reached us of the death of Smaug we had to see for ourselves," he explained in Westron. "The good people of Dale offered us their hospitality, but we went south along the Celduin, we only returned with spring. I was surprised to find Elvish stores here in the midst of winter, but if the Elvenking is involved, this explains a lot. Father, may I introduce Lucan of the Rohirrim." With that he directed his gaze at the young man at his side. Lucan, if that was him, merely nodded. 

"What is a Rohirric warrior doing this far north?" Thranduil asked and finally dismounted. Down the Celduin meant that at least his son had spent the darkest months with his brother. 

Aldarion shot him a warning look. "He is accompanying me. A word, father?"

With a nod, Thranduil stepped out of earshot of all Men, though a quick glance in Bard's direction told him Sigrid was talking to him in low and urgent words. 

"He is the Dragonslayer?" Aldrion asked in Sindarin, following his gaze. 

"He has no fondness for that title, unfortunately," Thranduil told his son. He seemed well.

Now Aldarion gave him a smirk. "You must be fond of him, though, if you have even taken in his children. I would have expected Duinhir to do something like this but not you. It is good to see you can still surprise me, father."

"You are not nearly old enough for me to not surprise you anymore. Our eastern borders need securing; we have the mountains in the west, but the power from Dol Guldur is becoming more of a threat." His son's expression lost all amusement and Thranduil nodded. "That's why we need the Men."

"And the Dwarves?"

Thranduil exhaled. "Are a necessary consequence, I fear. How are you?"

The smile was back on Aldarion's face, something that was supposed to put Thranduil at ease, but he had seen it too often. "I am well, you need not worry. We are riding today, I was merely waiting for you since Bard said he was expecting you. Lucan likes to be around his own on occasion. Why did you not bring Legolas?"

For a moment Thranduil looked back the way they had come. Feren's guards had already dispersed to set up a perimeter and watches, and he had a clear view of the path. His voice softened with fondness when he said, "Your brother is looking for orientation with the Dúnedain."

"Then it is decided," Aldarion told him after one long last look. He turned around and called to Lucan, "We ride for Bree! I hear the Rangers of the North can be found there often."

Thranduil had turned around as well and called after his son, "You want to pass by Imladris." A flash of curiosity flashed in Aldarion's eyes which told him that he understood the implication. Elrond had sent more messages to inquire how much Thranduil knew. Aldarion would not be able to tell him, either, but his presence might signal the wish to keep matters between them peaceful. "Legolas spent Eruchermé there."

That earned him a smile and a gesture of love and farewell that he returned before both Aldarion and Lucan got on their mounts and rode off without a backward glance.

"Do you always send your children to the ends of the world?" Bard's voice sounded behind him, a light and teasing note in it. 

They stood a little ways off and Bard bent down to kiss Tilda on the cheek, said something quietly to her and Sigrid standing next to her. Bain drew them off, then, saying, "Come, let's see our new house, it's amazing, our old one would fit in there twice!"

Thranduil stepped towards Bard, who joined him walking the paths and streets of Dale, now free of rubble and full of noises of ongoing construction. Bard looked a little pale and exhausted, his hair longer than it had been, but he seemed nevertheless hale. 

"Aldarion has always had wandering feet," Thranduil explained. "A few times when he was very young we had to stop him from packing a bundle of lembas and taking a horse as far as it would take him. As long as he comes home or takes shelter with Duinhir occasionally, I cannot keep him. And I do not want to."

Nodding his understanding, Bard started to show him where construction had started inside the city. The walls had been visible from the outside already, they had been heightened and reinforced and best of all, they were already finished. Every so often a Dwarf crossed their way; they greeted Bard cheerfully but had little regard for Thranduil. He didn't care overly much. 

"How is your housing situation?" he asked and looked at the empty spaces where several buildings had been torn down. 

Bard shrugged. "We still have families and former neighbours living together, but I don't think they mind. Everyone has a bed. I'd say give it a few more months and we'll have room to spare. My neighbour kicked me out of her family's place, actually."

"Is that so?" Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Said a Lord couldn't possibly bunk with his subjects. I think Tauriel conspired with them." Thranduil didn't think anyone could sound more miserable over having his own place to sleep than Bard did right then. He smirked at the man, who frowned in return. "This is all your fault, you know?"

"Yes, quite. All I see is progress, though, so I will accept that blame gladly." Bard rolled his eyes and Thranduil couldn't help but smirk a little wider. "How are things going with the Dwarves?"

"Better than I initially expected. They found out we know how to farm this land." And Dwarves were an opportunistic folk, of course they would see the value in having Men outside their walls growing food. 

They fell quiet while they finished their tour through Dale and Thranduil could see work being done everywhere by Men and Dwarves alike and a city was taking shape. Not all of the people were from the town on the Long Lake, but since neither Bard nor the supply crews had reported any problems, he had no reason to mention it. 

Finally he decided to finish their walk. "Lord Bard, I propose we start negotiations tomorrow, I do not expect them to be taking overly long. In the meantime why do you not join me for a cup of wine in my tent?" 

Bard gave him a lopsided smile in return. "I believe it should be my turn to host?"

Half shrugging, Thranduil turned and walked to their destination. "We have a good summer ahead of us. I'll come to your harvest festival, you may host then. Make it a tradition! Now come and drink my wine."

He heard Bard laugh low in return, but he followed him without any further comment until they came within sight of Thranduil's tent. "You didn't bring two tents this time? I'm disappointed."

"Last time we were at war and I was commanding an army. Besides, my spot was taken by some upshoot Lord of Dale who thought he had to build his house there," Thranduil answered and let him precede inside. 

"Is that so," he heard Bard murmur as he followed him, "how impertinent." The flap had barely fallen closed behind him when Bard stepped up and fisted a hand into the front of his coat. Thranduil let himself be pulled in and kissed back when he felt Bard's lips on his, letting Bard take control and went along with the feeling of contentment. It lasted only a handful of moments and when Bard released his clothes and stepped out of his space, Thranduil felt mildly bereft. "I just wanted to establish that."

Thranduil hummed and leaned in once more to return the favour, his hand just so holding on to Bard's waist to keep him in place. "Consider it established," he said when they finally broke apart and Thranduil was the one to step back. He poured them both some wine and invited Bard to sit. "So everything is well?"

"I can't complain." When Bard responded he looked even more tired, though. But maybe that was to be expected, under the circumstances. "I would have preferred to know about Aldarion before he told me to send his regards to his father the Elvenking."

"I did not think you wanted a family history and I had no reason to believe he would make his way here." He wanted to know more about that Rohir with his son. The Rohirrim didn't usually leave their lands to travel this far north and not alone. He wondered where he might have met up with Aldarion and what had moved him to be his son's travelling companion. However, unless Bard had more information, he would have to wait until next they met, or find out whether Duinhir had more information since they had spent the winter there.

Bard turned the cup in his hands. "How are my daughters?"

"I would think you should ask them yourself." Bard and the girls were exchanging letters frequently; even with the snow impairing travel, the supply crews still made their ways constantly. 

The man shook his head. "I know what they say. I want to hear what you think, you see them everyday, you are there." And Bard was not. He was close with his children and Thranduil knew much the girls missed their father. Bard had to suffer as much as his daughters did. 

Thranduil gentled his expression into a smile and shook his head. "They are both well. They picked up some sort of infection a few weeks ago, but we removed that from their systems quickly. They miss you, but they have found their place among my people."

Snorting, Bard leaned back. "Where were you when all three of them had the flu five years ago and I caught it from them?"

"You might try calling on us from now on," Thranduil remarked in his driest tone of voice. 

"I will keep that in mind." He set down his cup and got up. "Thank you for the wine. I want to spend time with my children, but please feel free to see more of the city. We'll expect you for supper later."

He had barely left when Thranduil heard a familiar voice outside, "My Lord?"

Tauriel's report on defenses and Men's offensive capability was as complete as she could make it, yet when they stood together in the central fountain square, she didn't look satisfied. Eventually he asked her the inevitable. "If it comes to it, can you hold?"

With a practiced eye she surveyed the square and the people, evaluated her own defensive measures at the wall. "Give me another year and we might. This city was never built for a siege, you know they relied on the Mountain."

Thranduil nodded his agreement; Dale was not a fortress like Erebor and Men had known this. Perhaps it didn't need to be, judging by the way work went on hand in hand with the Dwarvish folk. Dale had enough of a fighting population, but apparently they might not need to. 

"And other matters?" He had a proposition for Bard, but he would first have Tauriel's opinion. Sigrid's Sindarin was almost passable by now and Tilda was picking it up without much study, her age favoured her. Bard and Bain on the other hand were not around the language all day long and while Thranduil had asked Tauriel to teach them both, they must have other matters on their minds.

Tauriel shook her head. "In this environment, it was always going to be slow progress. They are learning, albeit slower than might be wise. Maybe the continued association with you, my Lord, will help."

When he glanced at her and narrowed his eyes she clear suppressed a smile. At the same time she took it as the dismissal it was and hurried to her duties. He adjusted his cloak, tried to elucidate the fortunes of the city from the activity around him. 

Though it was spring the days were still short and dark was falling early. The watch had rotated for the night by the time Thranduil heard an exchange outside and Bard ducked into his tent once more. 

"Everyone is sleeping?" Thranduil asked quietly as Bard let himself down on the cot in the corner. 

"I think I'm almost sleeping," he answered, leaning back on his elbows. 

Thranduil got up from his chair to walk over, dropped the stole from around his shoulders so that it pooled on the bedding. Bard shot him a glance from under his lashes when he moved his fingers to wrap them in the material. "Then why did you come?"

"I like the company," he answered, holding Thranduil's gaze as he sank down to sit next to him. "I thought you might as well."

"I might," Thranduil answered and leaned forward for a kiss. It was gentle and only slowly deepening, yet neither of them took it any further for now. Outside it was quiet but for the usual noises of a night in a city of Men, a spot of normalcy in times of upheaval. Eventually Bard shifted his weight and brushed the hair back from Thranduil's face, tangling his fingers into the long tresses. 

They broke the kiss and Thranduil felt a gentle touch running down his spine through his clothing. At the same time Bard leaned in and sucked kisses into the skin under his ear, trailing down how throat, pulling his clothes aside to reach. 

"This seems very familiar," Bard murmured against his skin and then turned Thranduil's head around to kiss him properly. 

Humming in agreement, Thranduil pushed him down onto the cot. They were still fully clothed, but not for long. Yet no army waited out on the killing field, war was not threatening, they could take their time. "Would you like this to get more familiar?"

"I would not object," Bard answered and squirmed out of his layers of tunic. 

Having shed their clothes, Bard dropped a kiss on his lips, one hand buried in Thranduil's hair and the other traveling down his body. He gave into the sensation and for a while neither of them had much to say.

A long time later, Bard sighed against his naked shoulder and kissed the skin quickly. "I should sleep at home."

Thranduil let him roll off the cot, because as arguments went, Bard's right now was pretty convincing. He watched lazily through hooded eyes as the man got dressed in the low lamp light. "I expect you after breakfast. There will be scribes."

"Don't worry, I'll be sure to keep myself in check," Bard told him with a smirk and leaned over for a last kiss. Thranduil prolonged that for a moment by placing a firm hand into the nape of his neck and keeping him in place. 

"See that you do," he told Bard when he let him go and sat up fully. That brought him a last appreciative look before Bard left the tent for the night, leaving Thranduil to his own thoughts. The times were moving again indeed, and Thranduil couldn't say he was entirely upset by that. 

Negotiations took little more than half a day. Thranduil had expected that to a certain extent; they had no reparations to settle between them and their alliance had been very much in place from the start and only needed to be formalised. The fact that he and Bard understood each other on a fundamental level didn't hurt, of course. That left one last matter to settle. 

Thranduil leaned back in his chair and eyed the scribes. "Some of my people who took in the children of Esgaroth have approached me before I left for Dale," he started.

Interested, Bard leaned forward and shot him a glance. Thranduil had to admit he hadn't counted on this turn of events, but wondered whether it might not be a fortuitous one. "They have grown … rather fond of their new charges. They ask to keep them until they are of age … or alternatively to be allowed to settle in Dale for the time being."

"What do you mean?" Bard asked with a frown.

Thranduil shook his head. "I cannot break it down any further than that. I ask for leave from you to take some of your people out of Dale for the duration … or for your permission for some of mine to live here. I estimate ten to fifteen years, but cannot guarantee on either."

Frowning, Bard asked, "You're asking for my permission?"

Thranduil acknowledged that with a tilt of his head. "It is your city and your people."

It was a long moment before Bard let out a breath and shook his head. He caught Thranduil's eyes and answered, "I said this before, anyone who wants to contribute is welcome. As for those children, I'm not going to tear them out of the arms of people who love them, whether they be Elves or Men."

"You are most gracious, Lord Bard. And indeed, some of my people living here might improve your grasp on our language" Thranduil told him and received a quiet snort and a small roll of his eyes in response. His only answer could be a smile.

Eventually they both signed the contract and were left to their own devices soon after. Even Bain left with a growling stomach and Bard sent him off with a laugh. Thranduil took up his wine and contemplated the man across from him. "I should have made you sign to always accept my advice. That would make things so much easier for both of us."

A derisive snort and then Bard said, "Now where would be the fun in that?" Thranduil smirked and Bard rolled his eyes fondly. It was good they understood each other.

He left Feren and a token force; he would bring the girls home the next day. Thranduil wanted to give them and Bard the opportunity to make a few decisions. Foremost of those was the question when the girls would be moving back to Dale, although Thranduil had already voiced his opinion that this should not be before matters of safety had been settled. Still, the decision was not his to make. 

He had not, however, expected to find Sigrid in his study two days later, so close to tears that the only reason they didn't flow was because she refused to blink. He couldn't imagine what might have occurred on her way back from Dale and he tried to make her sit. "What happened, were you attacked?"

For some reason that made her laugh and the unshed tears fell down onto her cheeks. "You're worse than Da," she told him, her voice choked with tears but still laughing.

"I am also in a lot more trouble than your father if something happens to you," he answered brusquely. He had given Bard his word his daughters would be safe, if something happened to them while Thranduil might have done something about it… No. He finally got her to sit down by guiding her to the cushioned bench with a hand on her back. 

Snuffling, she wiped at her eyes and studied him. "That's an Elvish thing, isn't it?"

They hadn't talked much about her record keeping, but he had seen her in the library often enough, working on notes. He paused and returned her gaze levelly; he would not tell her about the kinslayings and oaths about jewels. "A lot of Elvish blood has been shed over people keeping their word," he eventually allowed. "Now stop dissembling. What happened?"

Fresh tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away. Her hands were steady, at least she wasn't in shock. "You and Da agreed for us to stay here until you had made the alliance formal, right?" He tilted his head in agreement. "I know it was to keep us safe. And now."

He smiled at her and reached to touch her arm. "You want to go back, I understand. I hoped you would discuss that with your father. We can arrange for it."

The look she gave him in return was nothing short of startled, then she swallowed and covered her face with her hands, sobbing. While he never would have admitted it, Thranduil was definitely out of ideas of how to deal with the children of Men. He had not known the girls long enough to be able to read their emotions well, there were too many nuances and he couldn't tell what had moved her to tears. Granted, his own children had thrown some spectacular tantrums when they were little. But he had expected her to be happy to go to Dale, for he knew she missed her father as much as her sister did, even though she might not show it in the same ways. The tears distressed him.

Thranduil took her by the shoulders, careful not to use too much strength, but she would only look at him when he increased the pressure. "What is wrong?"

She swallowed and took a breath, marginally composing herself. "I want to stay," she sobbed through another surge of tears. 

Stunned, Thranduil took a moment to run the words through his mind again before he sighed and scooted closer to her, pulling her in by the shoulders simultaneously. For the briefest of moments she resisted, scared for reasons Thranduil wasn't able to elucidate, but then she leaned against his chest. He very well remembered the emotional distress Tilda had been in all those months ago and some other times since when he had held her, but he didn't feel that words would help Sigrid now. She was quiet in her hurt, almost silent, and for a long while Thranduil only stroked her back and waited. 

She calmed in increments and stages and after long moments, Thranduil could tell she was more embarrassed by her behaviour than she took comfort from his embrace and he decided to save her a new burden. "You need to talk to your father about this," he murmured without looking at her.

A moment later he shook her head, still resting on his chest. Her voice was still stuffy when she spoke. "I already did."

That surprised Thranduil, for he hadn't thought her mind was quite that made up. It must have happened after he had left, for he didn't think Bard would have kept quiet about something like this. He ran a hand over her hair. "What did he say?"

"What do you think?" she asked, sounding sullen.

Truth be told he had some rather pretty illustrative ideas of how Bard might have reacted to such news, but she had probably heard none of those. Some things fathers simply had to accept at face value. "I think he was very upset, but ultimately left the decision to you."

Sigrid was essentially grown already, by the standards of Men, despite her youth. Hard living and responsibilities like hers were enough to do that, even without losing home and hearth the way she had. Yet she still was a child and this decision presented a burden, explaining the tears. She nodded, then pushed him away and scooted back to re-establish their personal space; yet he reached out and stroked a strand of hair off her forehead. 

"He said I had to talk to you." She looked miserable and he sighed.

"As is what he should do." Bard, of course, would know Thranduil would not deny his daughters permission when he was the one who had originally suggested the girls should stay in the Woodland Realm. Still, Sigrid was the daughter of a foreign lord, despite the friendship between her father and Thranduil, certain proceedings needed to observed. He shot her a glance, then shook his head. "Of course you may stay here. What about Tilda?"

The question made her laugh. "Have you met my sister?"

Which was an appropriate assessment, because for the most part, Tilda tried to do what Sigrid did. Over the past few months, she had started to follow her sister to the range and Cúthalion was teaching her now as well, although Sigrid had drawn a very clear line at her handling a sword. 

Thranduil gave her a few more minutes to compose herself and then sent her off to her quarters. The afternoon light was getting low and the reflected light from the surface glittered in the pool in the middle of the room. For a while Thranduil gazed at the water, considered going back to Dale to discuss the matter with Bard in person but finally discarded the idea. He would send a thrush to acknowledge the situation when it was light again.

It was a habit they had gotten into and the birds carried frequent messages back and forth. It made for an easy mode of communication over the distance.

Two weeks passed before Bard appeared in his solar while Thranduil glanced out across the tree tops. Green was yet absent from the Woods and a chill was still in the air, but spring was gaining traction and it was only a matter of time until the first buds would show. The man came over to him, wrapping himself into a coat but still he shivered. "What's to see?"

"I look out for all that is before you," Thranduil answered after a long moment. "Does that impress you?"

He watched Bard from the corner of his eye as he shook his head. "Sounds like you have your work set before you."

"My father was a great king," he said instead. Sometimes, while the shadow had crept towards their borders and before Thranduil knew what was brewing in darkness, he had wondered whether he had failed his heritage. Now he often wondered if what he was doing to prepare could be enough for his people.

"I'm sure you do him justice." Bard looked out over the tree tops once more and Thranduil felt honoured by the confidence, even if the man did not know what was coming. "You did not come to greet me this time."

Thranduil half turned his head and raised an eyebrow. "Would you have liked that?"

"There's something to be said about calling the Elvenking my friend," Bard responded with a faint smile. "Who will apparently foster my daughters for the foreseeable time."

For a moment Thranduil half closed his eyes, then turned around and walked into the room, Bard trailing behind him. "I thought you might prefer to only be with your children for now."

"You mean, to avoid you," Bard clarified, turned when Thranduil walked around him to pick up a stole. "What for? Because my daughter figured out she has the right to be a little selfish?" He shook his head. 

Thranduil hadn't questioned why Sigrid had wanted to stay, but he could see it—the promise of an unparalleled freedom, by standards of life on the lake—and he could also see why it would distress her as much as it had. Unfortunately, the sense of duty was often misplaced in Men. "Then I will consider it an honour to watch over your children."

The smile on Bard's face was tinged with sadness and Thranduil stepped up to him and laid a hand over his heart. He felt Bard breathe in and then sigh. "I also think I need your help."

"Oh?" He removed his hand and took half a step back to give them both the semblance of space. "You mean to tell me my advice counts for something after all?"

"Thranduil," Bard complained and sounded impatient.

Chuckling quietly, Thranduil stepped around him to get to the table. "What is it you need?"

Bard took a breath. "You said spring might bring an influx in population and not necessarily in the way I want it. We got a very few people in during winter, but they were willing to pull their weight. How do I manage the rest?"

"Well, I guess you can't do anything about the Dwarves." He raised a hand when Bard threw him annoyed glance. "Very well. Let's start with talking about the kind of people you want, because not everyone who is not actively disrupting is someone you want in Dale."

Late that night Bard lay on the other side of the bed under a mass of blankets, breathing deeply. Imparting the experience of a lifetime in a matter of hours was simply impossible, but Thranduil tried to condense the most important facts down to manageable bits. Bard would still need help. 

Thranduil reached for one of the blankets and closed his eyes, willing for sleep to come. Something in Bard's breathing changed and he rolled over, roused by their shifting weight. Yet no words passed between them and Bard merely slung an arm around Thranduil's waist, scooting closer, then went back to sleep. 

Laughing just a little bit, Thranduil let his hand idly trail over the muscles in his back, enjoying the play of warm flesh beneath his fingers before looking to find sleep once more.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Thranduil rode into Dale it was with much less fanfare than the last time, although he had taken Feren and his companies along once more. This time it was a simple matter of taking the girls to see their father, and though he could have sent them with someone, he had chosen to go himself. He wanted to see how his lessons were taking and what progress the people were making and the girls had asked.

It was not easy to resist Tilda when she looked at him with her big eyes and said, "Please, Thranduil," no matter that he was the King of the Woodland Realm. 

He got the first idea that this might be more than he had been told about by the time he saw the large tent in the main square. It wasn't of Elvish make, the design was clearly that of Men and Bard waited in front of it in full regalia. Or what could be considered regalia for him; fine wool and linen, heavy belt around his waist, the sword Thranduil had given him at his hips, clasped for peace and his long bow slung around his chest. Bain was similarly decked out and hugged both his sisters when they stormed towards him. The girls' hair was braided in Elvish style as it was on most days now and while their travel cloaks were functional first, they fit in with the picture very well.

For a moment it seemed like Thranduil experienced double vision, for he thought he saw metal circle around Bard's forehead, studded with gems. But it was gone all too quickly and he frowned, then narrowed his eyes. "My Lord Bard, are you willing to tell me what the meaning of this is?"

Bard gestured with an extensive flourish towards the tent. "My Lord Thranduil, if you would just step inside. I think we have some matters to discuss."

The girls were beaming in turns at both Thranduil and their father, and understanding, Thranduil gave them a haughty glance in return. They had tricked him. And Bard had tricked him. It would almost have been admirable, if Thranduil had not been the victim of their trickery. He could not turn around and leave, though, he could not lose his dignity in front of the people of Dale. He also was faintly curious what Bard was planning. 

"Please, sit," Bard told him, inviting him to a chair at the head of the table. 

Thranduil studied him, accepting the offered wine. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You'll see." Bard's smile was teasing and a bit enigmatic. 

And Thranduil did, for a few minutes later Tauriel entered the tent, preceded by none other than Dáin Ironfoot, the King under the Mountain. The Dwarf tensed up immediately and shot a heated stare at Thranduil, while Thranduil stood and drew himself up. 

"Lord Bard," Dáin drawled angrily. "What is this insidious pixie doing here?"

"Give the imp a footstool so he can pretend to look me in the eye," Thranduil shot back.

Bard, also having gotten up from his seat, rolled his eyes. "If both of you are quite done insulting each other, take a seat. Please."

But Thranduil looked at Tauriel instead. "Were you part of this trickery?"

She inclined her head. "Only in its execution, not in its conception."

"Give me more credit, will you?" Bard interjected. "Sit, both of you. We have matters to discuss."

"What is there for me to talk about with this traitor?" Dáin spat.

That was too much; Thranduil walked around the table and bent down to the King under the Mountain, and hissed with such intensity that even Bard startled, "I have never once betrayed you."

But Bard, apparently, was also quick in recovery as he physically stepped between them before Dáin could do more than show his teeth. He touched neither of them, though, which was just as well. "This is quite enough. And also the reason why we need to be here in the first place. Both of you take a seat before I make you do it."

Thranduil stared up at Bard who returned his gaze levelly and didn't waver. He let out a breath and indeed stepped back and returned to his chair. Dáin glowered for a moment longer before also taking a seat. 

Bard looked at both of them, nodded, but remained standing. "And this very much puts us right into the middle of the situation we are here about. This city, myself and my son cannot remain between your two people like this. The disdain you have for each other is tiring and while I realise the reasons for this are buried in a past not even my ancestors were alive for, it is not a situation I relish. My people want dealings with both of yours, for not only are we in each other's debt, but this is how it has been generations past. We cannot be your eternal mediators and go-betweens now that we all inhabit this region again."

"I thought that was Tauriel's purpose," Dáin complained and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "What could I possibly want from a folk who consider themselves aloof of all?"

Bard regarded him mildy. "May I remind you who jumped in front of your people when the Orcs threatened to overrun you?" It shut Dáin up, but Bard looked at Thranduil sharply when he put a smug smile on his face. "You did not exactly cover yourself with glory either in regards to Ravenhill."

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Tauriel's eyes flash with hurt, but Thranduil couldn't find it in himself to feel remorse. Though at least Thorin had conducted himself with more creative insults. Still, he stopped smiling and took a breath, merely glanced impassively at the King under the Mountain. 

"What would you ask of us?" he inquired of Bard, because it was clear neither of them would drop their guard, but the Lord of Dale also would not let them go without at least a token concession.

Bard gave him a smile. "I'm well aware the two of you will never be on truly friendly terms. That's also not what the people of Dale are asking for. We would merely ask you at least tolerate each other's existence, since you will not change anything about it anyway. There also might be the opportunity for trade, which you might conduct in Dale."

He couldn't help it, Thranduil shot the man an appreciative glance; this was not even pretending to be an altruistic move anymore. He had definitely learned some things very quickly. Still. "I do not see what I might receive from the Naugrim that I could want."

Bristling, Dáin made to get up but was stopped by Bard's raised hand. His eyes never left Thranduil. "Maybe we shall have this discussion again when you have need of swords or armour."

Thranduil shook his head but refrained from saying anything; the likelihood of him having to outfit more soldiers than the armouries could supply was low. Still, he understood why Bard might think of it and it honoured him. 

For several more hours they traded insults back and forth, and Thranduil remained convinced that he and Dáin—or any Dwarf for that matter—would never be on friendly terms. After repeated urgings by Bard they eventually did come to the understanding that at least a verbal trade agreement might be advantageous for all parties involved. Another factor was that Thranduil still wanted to create revenue for Dale and the Dwarvish gold might as well be put to use. By the time Dáin left, he stared at Thranduil but refrained from any of his less than original insults.

Thranduil removed himself from the tent and glanced over the city. A few minutes later, Tauriel came up to him to talk.

"It seemed the best solution," she said the moment Bard stepped up behind them. 

"I thought she's not reporting on me." His tone was mild, but Tauriel's eyes still blazed in dismay. She had given im an abbreviated report in settlement efforts and defensibility. Not much had changed, although she seemed to appreciate the presence of other Eldar in Dale. Thranduil was still not sure he should not station a permanent force at Dale; so far he had refrained from it to not antagonise the Dwarves further and give Tauriel the space she required.

He shook his head at them both. "She is not reporting on your people, but on mine."

"Those are at best semantics," Bard interjected but his tone was mild. "Tauriel, do you think we need Thranduil's soldiers on the perimeter?"

She frowned, clearly not having expected this. "No, but that will not stop them." Smirking at her, Thranduil kept his tongue. Tauriel had served under his direct command for six centuries, and had been watch commander for a significant portion of this, she knew what he asked of his soldiers. "I will speak with Feren."

Nodding at both of them she left. Most people kept their distance, a pattern Thranduil attributed to their combined status more than just Bard's. Despite Elves living among them now though, the Men didn't seem to know what to do about the Elvenking in their midst. In the Woodland Realm, the Men that had stayed even after the spring had become used to him by now. 

Thranduil let his gaze travel over the broken colonnade; it was an aesthetic flaw, but for the moment still indicative of Dale. Bard crossed his arms over his chest. 

"You tricked me," he told Bard. The lesson to only rely on himself and his own forces had been driven home for Thranduil with enough force to never make him forget it. He was careful with his own people, and even more careful with his allies. This served as a not so gentle reminder, for however benign the deception was, it still stung. Yet he could not blame Bard, either. It was not his fault.

"I did you a favour," Bard clarified, then frowned. "I stepped on some Elvish sensitivities, didn't I?" he added quietly. 

Smiling despite himself, Thranduil sighed. "Something like that."

"In that case, I am sorry." Bard had turned to him, but Thranduil shook his head. It would not serve to argue about something Bard could not have foreseen and Thranduil would not hold a grudge against him. He knew the man respected him and would not intentionally cause him pain.

"Some of it is the history of your people also." Bard raised his eyebrows to indicate he was listening, but Thranduil shook his head once more with a grim smile. "Not tonight. My people have seldom been idle, our histories are long and varied. I know you did not mean any harm. And maybe tolerance is something we can achieve, eventually."

"I'm glad you would think so." After a few more silent moments Bard turned away, but asked over his shoulder, "Are you coming to bed?"

With an exasperated, put upon sigh—because their time was limited and no harm had been done—Thranduil answered, "Well, if you insist."

Laughing, Bard didn't look back as he walked away.

~*~

"She's good," Cúthalion said, not without a little pride in his voice.

Thranduil didn't even acknowledge him, just watched Sigrid run an obstacle course. It was not the usual way to conduct training, but this had been done for Thranduil's sons a long time ago and seemed appropriate for Bard's daughters, too. Compared to an Elf, she was slow, clumsy even. Her reflexes couldn't keep up with those of an Elf and she didn't have the same unthinking trust in her own abilities; she would calculate every jump, judge whether the next move would get her hurt. The concept was so foreign to Elves that Thranduil had to keep it consciously in the back of his mind.

Of course, as a child of Men, she could probably hold her own against anyone who threatened her. She could probably take on an Orc if she had to, but Orcs were addled creatures. 

Tilda was trying the same course, but she didn't have the muscle strength for some of the exercises yet, they would only develop sufficiently in the next year or two. Clearly, the younger girl was frustrated but she didn't give up. She also hadn't learned to fear getting hurt yet, which was a clear counterpoint to her sister. Thranduil found it intellectually fascinating and wondered whether he should write a treatise on the development of the psyche of Men during progression into adulthood. 

Cúthalion wasn't wasteful though, neither with time nor with resources and he had to have a reason to stand here with Thranduil. He had to wait a few more minutes though, until Sigrid had completed the course and wiped sweat off her face. "Have you considered giving her a more permanent task?"

"She is free to do with her time as she will," he told the young archer. "I think she has enough permanent tasks." Both girls were far from fluent in Sindarin and Sigrid was still working on her records and took sword lessons with him. She was improving in the latter, though sometimes he was still worried she might skewer herself with the practice blades. This was something else that Thranduil had never experienced with any of his children; the last he had taught to use a sword was Legolas and teaching Sigrid was bringing nostalgia with it. Legolas had never favoured the sword, but he was perfectly capable if he needed to be. 

For a while, Cúthalion let his words sit. Before long though, he continued, "So, if I wanted to take her outside the gates."

Thranduil looked at him sideways. "I suggest you make very sure a debacle like the winter hunt does not repeat itself. I also suggest you do not do this on a day when her father will be here."

A series of mutual visits had been established; when the weather was fair—as was the case now that summer had come—the girls often went to Dale with an escort. Usually they stayed for two or three days and then returned. Sometimes Thranduil went with them, but more often than not he remained in the Woods and tended his own tasks and pastimes. Bard made it a point to come to the Woodland Realm every few weeks, ostensibly to visit his daughters and confer with Thranduil. They had fallen into a rhythm that Thranduil very much appreciated and would encourage for the future.

Cúthaluion straightened his back while his face went carefully blank. "Of course, my Lord."

With a shake of his head, Thranduil turned away and left the practice range. Instead of contemplating Cúthalion's whims, he called up Feren and had his elk saddled; reports from the border had been confusing for a few days and he'd been feeling change in the land. He needed to see for himself. 

The activity at Dol Guldur had been fluctuating as far as he could tell and as far as the animals of the Wood had reported. Still, any activity there was bad news, still no matter its history, now it sat well outside his borders. Let Lórien deal with the immediate implications, they had wanted the territory in the first place, they could now reap the consequences of neglect. And yet those consequences affected them all the way in the north of the forest.

Thranduil's territory didn't have a true border, though he tried to discourage his people to stray out into the dead and shadowed parts of the Wood to keep them safe. The only ones who trespassed here were the hunting parties in search of spiders.

The part of the forest deep in hibernation or already dead harboured many of his people's legacies, which had been mourned when they had passed beyond their reach. He still remembered them and he would always remember them even should they remain so for the rest of his life.

In these places, the forest was unnaturally quiet and Thranduil could hear his own breath too loud in his ears. "Be on your guard," he told his soldiers. The atmosphere dampened his spirits and gave the impression of making it hard to breathe. This was worse than it had been at the beginning of the new year just a few months past. 

"We are turning back," he told Feren, who nodded and rallied his soldiers.

That was when the crack of a twig gave them away; nothing lived here, not even spiders would thrive here because there was no food for them. Thranduil drew his sword and whirled around in the saddle, catching an Orc in the midsection. Guts spilled on the elk's rump and the animal jumped, startled, making the horses rear their heads. 

He wheeled the elk around in the direction the Orc had come. They seldom travelled alone and preferred packs. Thranduil wouldn't tolerate an Orc pack on his land and he would ride them down. Behind him, he heard Feren give commands in clipped words, but that was when he saw two shadows flitting ahead of him and went after them.

His men fanned out in a circle behind him to keep his back free. He thrust his sword through the chest of an Orc and looked around for the other one.

They needed another half hour to hunt down the last of them and another hour after that to reach the gates. "Reinforce the guard, double the watch. I want regular patrols!"

Feren nodded and hurried off. Thranduil considered the stone column next to him. Maybe Dol Guldur would be his problem before it became Lórien's after all.

~*~

The long days of summer had finally arrived, though midsummer was still a ways off. Thranduil had unearthed the wooden box containing Girion's emeralds to look at them in the warm summer sunshine. He had been tangentially aware of their existence in times past, but with the Dwarves and the coming of Smaug, he had never wondered what had become of them until Bard had revealed them. Dale had been a prosperous trading town, still these had to come from somewhere.

Eventually he took the box down to the library and set it on a table, selecting various tomes that might contain a reference to them. Before long Sigrid joined him, sitting across from him as she often did on evenings like this. He seldom brought boxes of gems, though, so she abandoned her own efforts and came around the table to look at them.

"Do you know if Girion ever really wore these?" she asked and sat down in the chair next to him.

He kept perusing the index in front of him. "For really important occasions only. They're heavy and not very practical. I saw them once, he wanted to impress me."

Nodding, she glanced into the box again, then turned to him once more. "Shouldn't I have been giving you those, since I'm Da's oldest female relative?"

Interested, he let out a breath and closed the book in front of him with a decisive thumping sound. He turned around to her and gave her a thorough look; her chin was raised and she was certain she knew what she was talking about. Thranduil could very well guess at what she was meant and which customs she might be interested in that involved tokens given by relatives. Where she had gone wrong in her assumptions was that in practice Elvish marriage customs were largely symbolic and might be ignored even for less drastic reasons than war. Still he had encouraged her to ask questions and write down the answers, he would see she finish it.

"You are far from being of age, if you want to argue in that vein," he told her, which earned him a frown. "Even by the standard of Men."

"That sounds like a detail," she answered.

He smiled. "Details are important for the Eldar. Who told you?"

For a moment she thought about that, then shook her head. Well, she was not compelled to tell him. "Does Da know?"

"I doubt it." For Bard, despite Esgaroth's physical proximity to the Woodland Realm and his barge commission, Elves and their history were largely a matter of legend and shrouded in the mists of generations past. Unlike Thranduil, who had witnessed the events at Thingol's court with his own eyes and fled from his ancestral home from the blades of his own kin. But legends had very little use for intricacies of traditions. "More often than not in the case of Men, pledges and gestures are just that. That does not make them less valuable or dear, for we know they were given with care. It is this that I appreciate, it matters little what it means among my people."

For a long moment she was still, mulling over his words and trying to parse their meaning. "But what does it mean, when it's forever … beyond death? I can't imagine that. Death is…" She swallowed and took a breath. "Death is death."

When Legolas had been very little and too young to grasp the concepts of 'never again' and 'death in spite of immortality', Thranduil had once before tried to explain this. To this day he wasn't sure it had worked, but the boy had grown older and eventually understood like all children had to. Most mortals Thranduil had dealt with in the past understood, yet he wasn't always certain they could grasp the scope. Sigrid—also having lost her mother at an early age—was a lot older now than Legolas had been, yet he found himself at a crossroad at explaining it to her also. Maybe he should have dug out the loremasters' tomes after all.

"Our peoples' definition of death is very different. When Elves are slain, we go to Valinor and eventually our spirits reclaim our bodies there. But we can never come back here, now. Your world is closed to us until it ends." It was an insufficient explanation, but she nodded.

"And when we die, our spirits are weighted, judged and then we leave," she completed in a voice barely above a whisper. "I know that. I knew Elves could come back to life, but not— I thought it was like Luthien, maybe."

"Luthien died of grief and came back as mortal, though," he reminded her. It was not the way Thranduil wanted to come to stand before Mandos, but even Men knew the tale today.

Sigrid glanced at him in surprise. "You know this?"

Smiling, he nodded. "I was young but not a child anymore at Thingol's court when this happened. I never decided whether I thought it was brave or foolish."

For a few heartbeats she merely stared at him, probably only now coming to understand how old he was. That he had not only been there long before she was born, but that he would still be there a long time after she died. Finally she breathed, "I didn't know this."

He gave her a mild smile, stroked a hand over the cover of the book he'd been looking into. "What you may also not know is that the Valar do not want us to be alone. We are betrothed and we wed and we remain so even in Valinor, but grief after loss has to be a finite emotion. In fact, we crave all that is alive and—this you cannot write down—prolonged suffering is anathema to our very existence. And sometimes, if luck is with us, we find a companion for a while."

Once more she glanced at the jewels before heaving a sigh and meeting his eyes. "So you're not taking Da to Valinor?"

Indeed that might have comprised a somewhat awkward situation and he tried very hard not to laugh, as her concerns were very real to her. He understood, to a certain extent. Losing a parent was easy under no circumstances. Bard was mortal, though, and therefore he tried to put her at ease. "I have great fondness for your father, but even if that were possible, neither of us would be willing or able to brush aside his responsibilities here and now. Am I to leave behind my people and my children in this perilous time when I am not weary ... yet? As a general rule, Sigrid, mortals do not go to Valinor and even if they did, that would not change their mortality. No matter what the Númenorians believed."

Exceptions notwithstanding, but none of them here now were part of a prophecy or carried enough impact to warrant that. And he didn't think Sigrid would be aware of this, he would not bring it up to foster her insecurities and fears.

He held her gaze as she thought about his words and then she blinked and frowned. "Númenor sank, didn't it?"

Raising both eyebrows, he smirked. "They got greedy."

She blew out an exasperated breath and pressed her lips together. "What is actually impossible for Elves?"

Well, it had been Eru Ilúvatar who sank Númenor, but she would read about that in time. 

"And why would I tell you that?" he asked her sweetly and opened the book in front of him again. He was determined to find the reference this night, but he saw her smile from the corner of his eye as she got up and picked a book from a shelf that he knew didn't hold anything in Westron.

He liked it when his charges were trying to prove a point.

"I'm almost late for my practice with Cúthalion," she told him and then turned around once more before leaving the library. "Thranduil? Great fondness, is it?"

To her credit, she was trying. Still, Thranduil had done this a lot longer than her. He looked straight at her, cocked an eyebrow and said in a tone he knew conveyed both mockery and acceptance, "Practice, is it?"

Her whole face flushed from her collar upwards into her hairline and she fled the room quickly. Maybe it had been a little cruel, he figured, but she would come around eventually. Thranduil, for his part, trusted both of them to have matters under control until a time came when such might be discussed.

~*~

"My Lord, the Lord of Dale is on his way," Galion informed him and Thranduil looked up from the side of the round pool with a frown. It had been months since anyone had bothered to announce Bard's arrival in the Woodland Realm to anyone, let alone inform Thranduil about it. Galion shrugged. "I think it is official."

That was even less conclusive, but Thranduil merely collected his crown—decked with summer flowers and soft branches—and made his way to the throne room. If Bard came in an official capacity, he might as well be received by the King of the Woodland Realm. By the time Bard crossed the stone bridge towards the throne, Thranduil was sprawled in his seat in his favourite position, legs crossed at the knee. 

"Lord Bard of Dale," he drawled. "To what do I owe the pleasure."

Bard glanced up at him, his mien grave but his eyes twinkled a little and the hint of a smile played around his mouth. The glance was clearly meant to convey appreciation for what he was seeing. "I have come to pay my tithe."

"Oh." Thranduil smirked and leaned forward a little. "I do not remember being your tithe lord."

"Well, maybe you should be, then my problems would be fewer." 

Thranduil leaned back, sprawling once more in his seat, and regarded Bard through hooded eyes. His glance had turned beyond appreciative and Thranduil found himself sprawling a bit more than usual. "Is that so." The man sketched a bow and Thranduil let out a breath, tilted his head in question. "Very well. Describe what brings you here."

Uncomfortable, Bard looked around, but then pulled himself together. He had wanted this to be an official meeting between Lord and Elvenking. "It appears the new Master of the town on the Long Lake insists he has a claim towards me and my city's share in the treasure under the Mountain."

"And how does this concern me? Ah right," he added when Bard shot him an annoyed look. "If I were your tithe lord. Well, then I would insist that this new Master has no claim on you but on the Dwarves."

"I am well aware of this," Bard told him. "And usually I would tell him to sod it, but that's not really feasible under these circumstances."

"Those being?" He leaned forward.

By now Bard was pacing and the almost playful atmosphere was all but gone. "We need the harbour that the lake provides and we're not the only ones. Your trade routes also go via the River Running, don't they?"

"My traders are not dependent on the lake," Thranduil told him, "as you well know. It was convenient in the past, but not necessary. I could even conduct my trade entirely through Dale, if I so chose." Some of which he had been doing already, actually, not that Bard was entirely aware of the extent. 

The man stopped his pacing and looked upward, face set in stone. "That means I can't expect help from you?"

"Now this is not what I said," Thranduil corrected and got up, leaving his cape behind along with their game and walked down to Bard's level. "Let us talk somewhere more comfortable. You must be hungry."

He got the whole idea eventually; apparently some creature called Alfrid had assumed command over the fishermen that had returned to the lake to try and make their luck despite the rotting dragon in their midst. Why that man was now demanding his due from Bard rather than the Dwarves, Thranduil was still in the dark about. 

"It is not right," Bard finally concluded. 

Thranduil shook his head. "I still do not see how this is your problem. Send them to the Dwarves to receive their share."

"They're not bad people. Alfrid is problematic, but the rest of them are just trying to make a living." He pressed his lips together and balled his hands to fists.

Sighing, Thranduil shrugged. "Inspire rebellion, then." When he didn't get an answer he looked up and Bard was staring at him. "What?"

"That is not advice I expected from an Elf," Bard simply said, sounding almost a bit awed. 

With a lopsided, haughty smile Thranduil told him, "I merely suggest something according to the resources you have available. And Men have proven … rather apt at rebellion over the course of the ages." Then he sobered. "Come, find your daughters, they should be on the range by now. Your issue has kept this long, it will keep a little longer."

By the time they retired to the solar that evening, Bard was still tense and angry at circumstances he had very little influence over. He had set aside those emotions while he'd been with the girls, but now they were back and Thranduil watched him look out over the trees and seethe.

"One wretched creature should not have you this worked up," he noted. 

The man laughed dryly and turned around to face him in the almost darkness of the night, illuminated only by the stars. "It's really just the latest event in a string of them. Did you know people are fleeing out of Rohan? And that bandits roam Rhovanion?"

Frowning, Thranduil shrugged. "We have been dealing with bandits from the mountains at the fringes of our territory ever since my father settled us here, as have many other settlements along the Anduin. Shore up your defenses, Tauriel knows how to deal with this." The news out of Rohan were more worrisome, albeit less surprising than Bard might think them to be. After Aldarion had ridden west with that Rohir, Thranduil had made inquiries. "As for the Rohirrim, King Fengel is not a popular man, however I would expect them to go into exile in Gondor. If they trek this far north to escape that is … a little worrisome."

Bard made a gesture that meant so much as, I told you so, but Thranduil shook his head.

"I don't see how this is your problem, though," he continued. "In fact, the Rohirrim will be a valuable contact in the future, if you play it right. They will not take from you without giving in return."

Rolling his shoulders, Bard finally sat down on the cushioned bench that had been dragged out to the overlook for the summer. "So," he concluded and counted on his fingers, "get the fishermen to rebel against Alfrid—truthfully it shouldn't be hard for them to run him out of town—make friends with the Rohirrim, ignore the bandits? All in a day's work, I guess."

Despite the dejection in his voice, though, his shoulders finally relaxed and the tension melted away slowly. The starlight reflected in his eyes as he looked up and Thranduil smiled. It could barely be enough to see by for the eyes of Men, but he had not asked to have a lamp lit. 

"Watch out for the bandits," he corrected and went to stand in front of them man so Bard, elbows braced on his knees, had to lean his head back to hold his gaze. "You will figure it out."

"Is that so?" he asked.

Thranduil hummed in acknowledgements, then bent down and pushed him back against the bench by the shoulder. Before Bard could so much as blink, Thranduil straddled his lap in one fluid motion. He distributed his weight evenly between his knees on the bench and Bard's thighs as he sat back and got comfortable.

"What are you doing?" Bard asked quietly even as his hands came to rest low on Thranduil's waist and the small of his back as though to steady him. 

Relaxing into the position, Thranduil framed Bard's face with both hands and drew him into a kiss. He felt the last of the tension leave the muscles in his neck as Bard breathed out and responded, the pressure of his hands gently increasing at the same time. Thranduil broke the contact after long dragged out moments and shifted back enough to look at Bard. "I am distracting you," he said, kissed him again with less intensity, changing the angle slightly. "My guess is it is working."

Bard made a noise in his chest even as his pulse ticked up fractionally, though he was still loose and neither of them was looking to go anywhere right in that moment. "I guess it is," he finally said and leaned in to catch Thranduil's mouth in another kiss, unhurried. 

The silk of Thranduil's tunic bunched up when Bard made a fist, pulled out of his leggings so hands could move under it. The kiss ended after an indeterminate time and Bard leaned back against the bench, thumbs drawing slow circles over the muscles of Thranduil's stomach as he just breathed. Thranduil's hands rested on his chest and shoulder, feeling the regular, measured heartbeat.

"I feel suitably distracted," Bard finally said, looking at him from under hooded eyes.

Laughing low in his throat, Thranduil slid one of his hands up to rest at the nape of Bard's neck and trailed his fingers through the hair there. "Do you know why the Eldar cherish the starlight most of all?"

When Bard shook his head, Thranduil smiled and leaned forward to drop another kiss on his lips and started talking, words mostly Sindarin and infused with the rhythm that wove facts of history into a tale to be told. He wanted to add the origins of what Bard would know as the Evening Star, but he was not in the mood to talk about the accursed Silmarils this night. He knew that one day he would have to bow down and make Bard and all his descendants understand just how much danger lay with those jewels, but not now. Instead he finished with the Eldars' love for the sounds of running water.

"That's why you have a river running through your throne room?" Bard asked quietly when he was finished, hands resting warmly on Thranduil's thighs, sounds of night around them. 

Thranduil gave him a lopsided smirk. "I think it is very atmospheric."

"Truly." Bard smiled in a way that was a little tired and a lot expectant. He raised a hand, stroked it through the lengths of Thranduil's hair where it was falling over his shoulder. "Any more stories you would like to share?"

"Oh, I know many stories that you have never heard of." He had already started sharing some of the more benign ones with Sigrid. However, he had struggled for the first few months to find something to tell to Tilda when she had asked him for a story before she went to bed; a habit that had developed after the first night he had comforted her. For Bard he would have to drive several other points home. And while there had been times of peace, much of the history of the Eldar in general and Thranduil's in particular were turbulent to say the least. "None of them are happy enough to start on them now, though."

Bard studied him in the near darkness longer than Thranduil would have warranted, then pulled him down by a hand in the nape of his neck and kissed him with care and determination. "Indeed? Do you have any suggestions what we might do instead?"

"I guess I could think of an activity or two," Thranduil answered against his lips, recognising the attempt to steer them away from hurtful thoughts and went with it. He slid off Bard's lap with fluid grace, trailing a hand along his arm only to grab Bard's hand at the last to pull him up. They could both do with forgetting for a night.

~*~

On the morning after the harvest festival, most of Dale was still in a drunken stupor and quiet as Thranduil made his way through the streets. True to his prediction earlier in the year, the summer had been good for the agriculture the Men of Dale had started to be able to sustain themselves without the help of their Elvish neighbours. Gold from the Mountain had gone a long way towards purchasing dray animals and seed, and the work of the Dwarves aided in providing tools and housing. Dale was starting to look like a city again instead of a refugee camp, traders had started to settle with some incentive from Thranduil, people were starting to breathe easier.

According to their earlier agreements, Bard had invited Thranduil for the harvest festival and the Elvenking had taken it upon himself to provide the wine. Everyone had eaten and drunk and much merriment had been had and Thranduil had dumped Bard's drunken behind into his bed eventually. He fully expected the man to reap the consequences.

A thrush alighted on his shoulder with a message from Lord Elrond of Imladris, but he sent it away unheard after stroking over its feathers in gratitude for delivering it. It was not the thrushes' fault Elrond was making a nuisance of himself. 

"My lord," Amáriël greeted him on his way to the central square where the feast had taken place the previous evening. Flower garlands were strewn around and released a fragrance just before rot when crushed underfoot, and the day promised to be sunny and warm for the season. Amáriël was one of the women who cared for the orphaned children of Dale while they had been in the Woodland Realm and had decided to settle in the city with her young charge, giving her the opportunity to grow up among her own kindred. "It is good to see you here so often, we feel truly at home."

Her smile was too innocent. He knew his people talked, but usually they did not take their gossip to him quite this directly. Shaking his head minutely, he motioned for her to join him on his walk through the still empty streets. "The Men of Dale have gotten used to the Eldar in their midst?"

"We provide, to an extent," she told him, echoing something Tauriel had hinted at multiple times. They saw the occasional straggler and passed a few drunkards snoring in the streets, but were largely by themselves except for the Elvish guards stationed periodically throughout the city. "I think the Naugrim have a harder time accepting us."

That seemed likely but couldn't be helped. Before King Thrór's greed had become all-encompassing, Eldar, Men and Naugrim had mingled in Dale often. Thrór had not wanted to listen. Now Dáin was the one who had to repair some of the damage his grandfather had wrought, Thranduil had very much done his part. 

"That is to be expected," he answered. She didn't say anything in return, just accompanied him to the parapet behind the construction site that still was the new Lord's House. Bard had not followed his counsel to finish his place of governance quickly, but ultimately that was his choice. Here she took her leave and left him in the company of the guards standing by the wall. 

Thranduil overlooked what had been the killing field little less than a year ago and couldn't help but be impressed with the Men's efforts of rebuilding. After his own father had moved them north and away from Amon Lanc and Thranduil had retreated further north again after the Shadow had fallen, rebuilding—and repopulating—had taken a considerable longer time. And after the Last Alliance… Thranduil shook his head. 

Now the way to Erebor was a true street again, paved and clearly used, bordered by still green pastures and a few corrals where the horses of the displaced Rohirrim were cropping grass alongside dray animals. Dale had been lucky, after a fashion. All of that soil had been scorched by dragonfire, but turning it had revealed fertile crumb. It was the best outcome they could have wished for, as dragonfire usually destroyed everything in its path to deep levels. He didn't care to think about it.

The air around him changed with someone else's presence, but it was only Bard who stepped up to his side. The man's eyes were bloodshot and narrowed to slits in the bright morning light and he exuded an air of misery. 

"Care to tell me who or what Lord Elrond of Imladris is?" he asked and his voice was husky and tinged with pain. "And let me guess, Elves don't get drunk and hungover?"

Frowning, Thranduil looked at him from the corner of his eyes. How did Bard know of Elrond? He had given Bard a book on the Last Alliance—a record from one of the soldiers on the side of Men—but that was two days ago and those days had been busy ones. There was no way he could have read it. And then he would have known who Elrond was.

Eventually he chose to ignore the question. "Drunk yes, a hangover is not something my people are familiar with. To be frank, you do not look like it is an enviable state."

"It's not." Bard scrubbed a hand over his face and Thranduil smiled. He had looked happy yesterday; his children and his people around him, the harvest enough to get them through the winter with some supplemental hunting, the walls protecting the city sound. A few times seeing Tilda looking up at her father, a bright smile on her face, had reminded Thranduil of Legolas and how much he had loved Harvest Day. 

Bard interrupted his reverie, still extremely pale, by reminding him, "Lord Elrond?"

Thranduil had been dealing with those of his own kind too long to let Bard know the question bothered him. "Elrond is the Lord of Imladris, an Eldar settlement west of the Misty Mountains. I sent Legolas to meet someone who used to be in his household. How come you know of him?"

This question Bard chose to ignore. "He's a friend of yours?"

At this Thranduil turned away from him to look again at the walls of Erebor. He had known Elrond and his brother in the Havens of Sirion before the sack when his father managed to get him to safety. Only later had they learned about what had happened to Elwing and that her sons were with the remaining sons of Fëanor. Thranduil and Elrond were of a similar disposition, wanting the best for their people and Thranduil, despite his duties as his father's heir, had often enjoyed Elrond's company and their correspondence. Until the Last Alliance. "This is not the term I would use any longer." He felt Bard's eyes on him for a long time, studying him. Then Thranduil repeated with more urgency "How do you know of him?"

"A thrush woke me with a message from him. For you. I'm not sure why." To his credit, Bard didn't even try to dissemble, merely deciding the direct route being the best. After a year, a considerable time for Men, Thranduil hoped Bard would be comfortable sharing these matters with him.

He smiled a bitter smile into the distance. Of course Elrond would have found out Dale was resettled and that Thranduil had offered his assistance. From there it was a small leap of logic to assume he could get to Thranduil through that city's lord. "It will be because I have been ignoring his messages."

"What does he want?"

The missives from Elrond, the ones he had bothered to receive anyway, were all of the same nature in varying degrees of urgency. How did Thranduil know of Strider, how did he know he was the son of Arathorn, and what else did he know? But Thranduil had no reason to reveal that he had developed a certain degree of foresight and knowing. Elrond was not privy to his confidence anymore and for good reason, even if he thought he was only protecting someone entrusted to his care.

"Information," he answered eventually. "But this should not concern you. Ignore the message or tell him I was not amenable, whatever you think best."

He wasn't sure that was sufficient for the man at his side, for he leaned forward onto the parapet and glanced at him once more. It took a long moment, but finally Bard nodded, then grimaced as if he regretted it. "You don't want me to interfere?"

"I would thank you not to." Thranduil knew his tone was cold, but Bard would know this wasn't directed at him.

The man made a sound of acknowledgement, before asking, "Are there other Elvish settlements here?"

Letting out a long breath, Thranduil debated what to say. In the end he settled on, "Lórien, in the south, east of the Misty Mountains. Lord Celeborn is a distant kinsman of mine."

"You're allies, then?" Leave it to Bard, sick and hungover as he was, to find two topics Thranduil would rather avoid. He could have cursed Elrond and his damnable spirit of enquiry if that would have been worth it. 

"Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel together with their wizard friends have made it beyond clear that they don't require my counsel," he pointed out. "Plus, there were some disputes over territory with my father."

Frowning, Bard straightened and faced him fully. "Tell me this; Dwarves and wizards and other Elf lords, do you get along with anyone?"

In an effort to diffuse the situation, Thranduil looked at him and smirked. "Well, I think my agreement with you is rather sound."

"You share my bed when the occasion presents itself, I should hope that is not your routine motivator," he retorted, still frowning, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much drink.

"Most certainly not." Thranduil tried not to show he had truly taken offense at this and keep his indifferent facade. In truth Bard should know a lot better, but the raised chin also told Thranduil he knew exactly how to get a rise out of the Elvenking by now. Thranduil brought his temper back under control and smoothed his face. "We live long lives in this world, we get drawn into conflicts not of our own making. You are sorely mistaken if you think none of that leaves its mark."

Bard raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise. "I never claimed that. My people can hardly get along and we barely live a fraction of your lifetime."

They held each other's gaze for a moment and then Thranduil sighed and shook his head. Bard might have lived among Men all his life, but Thranduil also knew how much of the lore of the Eldar had made it into their legends. "I have good reasons for my decisions and my actions, even if they might not always be transparent."

Groaning, Bard buried his face in his hands. "Why am I trying to argue the nature of Elves with an Elf lord when I'm this hungover anyway?"

"I think we can safely blame this one on Elrond ," Thranduil told him with the ghost of a smile. "Maybe you should go and find some food." When he turned green instantly, Thranduil amended, "Or whatever else helps you with your current condition. This is a state I fear your body has to work through on its own."

At this Bard grimaced again, but Thranduil gave him a smile and they walked back in almost companionable silence.

~*~

"Parry!" Thranduil bellowed in Sindarin and Sigrid raised her blade well in time to catch her brother's in the air.

Tilda flinched under his hands at the loud crash of wood on wood, but he stroked soothingly along her shoulders and kept her in place. He knew she had seen a lot worse during the fight for Dale, and he could not spare her the view now. Next time she saw this might be with steel and blood again rather than friendly sparring.

"It's loud," she complained and he glanced down at her scrunched up face.

"It is," he confirmed. "Better get used to it."

She crossed her arms, looking displeased and he affectionately mussed her hair. 

Bain had come to the Woods for a few days to see his sisters, and Bard probably wanted to give him a taste of what they were doing while he was in Dale. At the same time, Sigrid got someone with more or less her training level to spar with. She had improved vastly over the past few months, but fact was she was lacking a practice partner. Her brother had learned from Tauriel, and although Tauriel was far from his best or most experienced swordsman, he, too, was learning.

"Both of you need to react faster," he told them when the practice was over. "If you got into a real scrap, you would be hopeless."

"You told me I could take it up with an Orc!" Sigrid protested.

Bain continued in the same tone, "I already killed an Orc!"

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but it was Tilda who said, "Are Orcs your standard for everything?"

He couldn't help but laugh quietly at her words and the more than surprised faces of her siblings. "She is not wrong," he told them. "Go and get changed, it is almost time for supper."

Only Tilda stayed with him, but she carried an expression that Thranduil didn't quite know how to interpret. "Thranduil, would you miss me if I went to Dale?"

Glancing at her he raised an eyebrow. He had expected they would need to talk about this eventually, but hadn't thought it would be quite this quickly. Tilda wanted to do everything as well as her sister did, but she also very much had her own head. He touched her shoulder so she would look up at him. "Do you want to go back?"

She thought about that. "No." She shook her head. "Not yet, but maybe I want to. One day. I miss Da and Bain."

For that he gave her a smile. "Then you still may come here whenever you want," he assured her. "And because I will miss you, I shall come to visit you."

"And Da," she insisted, a glint of mirth in her eyes.

With a sigh he gave in. "Also your father."

~*~

Up until now the spiders had come up from the south and tried to invade Thranduil's territory, so when a patrol had reported evidence of them at their eastern border, Thranduil felt alarmed. The river went out to the east and this was their main trading route, the old road still traversing the woods their main avenue of travel. They needed to be kept secure and Thranduil would not stand for disturbances. He had made that overly clear to his guard and ridden out with Feren's company to have a look of his own.

The signs were subtle at best, although Thranduil would prefer this to be a false alarm rather than an actual infestation. It should have been too cold already for the spiders to make their way this far, it had been freezing constantly, though so far they didn't have much of a snow covering. 

Thranduil had dismounted and had his sword drawn when a thrush shot towards him, talking about Lord Bard and Elves attacking people in front of Dale, riding for Erebor.

"Feren," he called, pulling himself back into the saddle, "recall your soldiers, and everyo¬ne we have in reach, ride with me. Send someone back for replacements at the borders and set a guard on Lord Bard's daughters. Have Cúthalion with them, he's not to let him out of his sight until he hears from us!"

Nodding, Feren blew his horn and gave instructions to two of their swiftest riders. 

Thranduil's elk felt his nerves and started to shift under him so he leaned forward and murmured to it softly. They were at the edge of their territory, in good weather they could have made the rest of the way in few hours if they hurried the animals. With the ground frozen but not frozen solid, Thranduil was still willing to risk it with a token force, with the others following behind.

Elves didn't go rogue and started killing Men. It wasn't in their nature, Elves always had good reasons to kill, even if they were all the wrong ones, as during the dark days in Doriath and Sirion. And there lay the problem.

He gave the command to ride, a careful eye on the ground for the first league to make sure all animals could take it. A few stretches they needed to walk, but the rest seemed manageable. Even with all their power in healing, it would not serve to have the animals go lame. 

If Elves started attacking people who didn't want them ill and then started riding for a kingdom where one of the accursed jewels might be kept… Thranduil knew, no matter how large his force, he had no chance of stopping that kind of madness and he didn't care to. He wanted to get his people out of the way and prevent what bloodshed he could. If he could.

The road was too long. He had too much time to think and when finally Dale came into sight, he didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief yet. Months ago he had stood overlooking the killing field below the city and thought Dale had been lucky. Maybe now their very proximity to the Dwarves they had tried to make peace with was damning them to death. Thranduil had thought madness over and done with two ages ago, but maybe he had been mistaken. 

The killing field came into view and with it several dead horses and bodies of men, Thranduil judged over twenty. Dark, non-descript clothing without any identification, but there were other giveaways like the shoes of their horses. Thranduil frowned, suspicions rising. A tight knot of Men and Dwarves stood at a distance, stance threatening and the glint of steel clear to his eyes. They had the invaders surrounded. One of the stony slopes of the Mountain was at their back, the best position both for defense and offense.

But Thranduil knew in his heart that if this situation had proven his fears right, he would have found only the cooling blood of Men and Dwarves. He reined his animal in, the elk snorting and breathing hard; close to him he saw his soldiers do the same, their horses sweaty. Shouts for surrender came from the would-be jailers.

He rode up to the cordon of bodies, remaining in the saddle to get a better overview. "What is going on here?" he called, voice infused with power to carry. It seldom missed its mark, though when Dáin turned turned around and squinted at him it was with disdain. At least he kept back with his less than creative insults.

The three dozen Elves the Men and Dwarves had surrounded were familiar to Thranduil and only then he let out a breath that might have been relief. He and Feren got off their mounts and handed the reins off for the animals to be cooled down. His soldiers dispersed to set a perimeter, and for the best; he didn't want to present with full force here. 

"Thranduil." Bard came towards him, half an eye on his own people to keep them in check. "I did not expect you here this quickly. Everyone only just stopped threatening to skewer each other."

"I had duties in the forest," he murmured with a tight smile, because he appreciated the effort to make light of the situation. "What happened here?"

Frowning, Bard made him step around so Dáin could also listen to their conversation. So at least this alliance was working out. "We spotted them a ways off, but only realised much later what was happening. They rode down those men back there and basically slaughtered them, although that took a long time. We didn't know what to do, whether we should interfere."

"Claimed those lads were wainriders," Dáin drawled. "I have seen no wainriders here ever and neither has my father!"

"Well why do you think that is!" the leader of Elves exclaimed but the swordpoint at his throat kept him from actually advancing towards them. It was a concession that he complied, truly, for he and his soldiers could have overpowered and killed all the Men here and a good portion of the Dwarves. Thranduil knew how to train his sons. "Tell him!"

Thranduil let out an angry breath and stepped through the cordon, Men and Dwarves alike parting before him. He pushed the sword away from the Elf's throat and drew himself up to his superior height in front of him. " _You_ are a fool! When I heard Elves were killing and riding for Erebor I thought Maglor had returned to claim his father's jewel!"

A gasp from the side and from the corner of his eye he spied Balin, who had handed him the white gems over a year ago and brokered the contract with Bard. That Dwarf then knew about Fëanor's jewels, even if no one else here did. 

Duinhir had the good grace to look embarrassed and finally lowered his weapon, as did his soldiers. "That was not my intention … my King."

Whispers ran through the ranks surrounding them, but Thranduil didn't have the patience to deal with them. He stared at his son, acutely aware of both Bard and Dáin directly behind him, though they remained mercifully silent and also managed to shut their people up for the most part. Swords stayed drawn though, and Thranduil couldn't blame them.

"Explain yourself," he demanded and his gaze became even harder when his son looked at him with an annoyed expression. "Now."

"Do we have to do this here?" he asked in Sindarin.

"Yes," Thranduil confirmed, keeping the conversation firmly in Westron, "you put these people and me into a position that warrants some explanation. Now, Duinhir."

The indrawn breath to his left had to be from Bard, but they would need to have this discussion later. 

Duinhir briefly closed his eyes in defiance and drew a breath. "As I already elaborated repeatedly, we were hunting a group of wainriders we had problems with in the past few months. I followed them, the going was anything but smooth and we finally caught up to them here. Then these crazy folk threatened us and since we didn't actually want to hurt anyone, we complied."

"Nonsense!" Dáin thundered. "There have been no wainriders in Rhovanion for generations!"

"And why do you think that is?" Duinhir hissed acidly. "Because I'm fulfilling my duties!"

"Enough!" Thranduil exclaimed. "Dáin, Bard, a word?" He glared at Duinhir to stay put and led the two others out of earshot of the larger group. "He's right, though he should have acted with more caution."

Dáin drew a breath but Thranduil raised a hand. "No, Dáin. Wainriders have been a problem in the past and you full well know this. The Gondorians made them leave that realm alone, but they have been harassing traders and settlements constantly. It's part of the reason I sent Duinhir east, to guard the trading routes. Your safety was—for you—a convenient side effect no one mentioned, because we did not do it for you."

The King under the Mountain appeared grim and unwilling to accept it as he mulled that over. Bard looked over his shoulder and studied the mob of people behind them. "What do we do?" he finally asked.

"Duinhir should have conducted himself better," Thranduil repeated. "His men will clear away the bodies, butcher the horses for meat, even though that might not sit well with your Rohirric guests." He nodded at Bard. "Duinhir will introduce himself and explain the threat of the wainriders and make clear what his duties are."

When Dáin looked up to him, eyes narrowed, he asked, "If you are his king, why are you not doing that?"

Thranduil's gaze was level when he glanced down. "Because this is his responsibility. Duinhir is to be king one day, he should act accordingly." While Bard was unfazed by this revelation, it satisfied Thranduil that Dáin was visibly looking for words. "Now, if you would call back your people, I can have words with my son. I also need to send messengers to to my realm, call off the alarm."

"Are you not leaving?" Bard asked in surprise, but Thranduil shook his head.

"We rode hard, I want to give everyone some rest. I shall have to rely on your hospitality." Bard's lips twitched in amusement, but he made a gracious invitation towards the city. 

It took a few minutes for everyone to be called to order and Thranduil stood by patiently while Duinhir gave his soldiers orders. By rights, Thranduil of course could have done it himself, but undermining his son's command could not be his goal. 

"Father," Duinhir eventually murmured, stepping up to him with a gesture of greeting. Thranduil returned it with a smile measured with careful forgiveness. "I am sorry to have added to your burden."

"Seeing you is hardly a burden," Thranduil told him as they walked towards Dale, watched by both Men and Dwarves. "However I would have preferred more pleasant circumstances."

His son bowed his head in acknowledgement of that admonition and Thranduil decided to drop the matter. The boy knew he had miscalculated and he would learn from it, that was the most important outcome of the situation. The daylight was already waning by the time they closed in on the city and he could see watchfires being lit.

"The Men are back in Dale," Duinhir said wistfully. By the time Smaug had taken the Mountain, Duinhir had long been in the east, but he had known he Lords of Dale as his father's allies. Soon, he sobered however. "We dragged burned and drowned bodies out of the water for weeks after Esgaroth's fall. If it hadn't been for your message we would have thought everyone dead. He truly is the Dragonslayer?"

"And the Dwarves are back in Erebor." Thranduil nodded. "Do not call him that. He saw it as his duty, I have my doubts he considers it a privilege."

Duinhir glanced at him. "Should he be Lord of Dale, then?"

"He is kin to Lord Girion, it is his right and his duty and he is doing well, you will see." He shook his head then looked at the dead bodies as they passed. "How much trouble have the wainriders made?"

"We are handling them," Duinhir said with confidence. "They are getting bolder now, I cannot be sure whether it is the season or a change in their tactics. We will observe and you will get reports."

"See to it," Thranduil told him and spotted Bard standing in the central square, reassuring his people that matters were under control. The men retreated as Thranduil and Duinhir approached. "Lord Bard, may I present my son Duinhir. His settlement is located where Celduin and Carnen meet."

Bard turned to them and extended an Elvish gesture of greeting. "It seems you truly do control the trade routes." Thranduil smirked at him; Bard had ferried up wine barrels up and down the river from the woods for the majority of his life, he would know how trade was organised. He continued in halting Sindarin, "While circumstances are not ideal, Dale greets you and I hope you accept our humble welcome."

Duinhir nodded his acceptance. "We thank you, Lord Bard, and we will embrace your hospitality until the morrow. Now excuse me, I will go and settle my people."

Both Thranduil and Bard watched him go; Thranduil exhaled, loosening the tension that had held him as Bard laughed low under his breath. "So that is your eldest son. He doesn't resemble you."

"He usually is more competent than this." He still wondered how Duinhir could have made a miscalculation like this. He'd need to speak to him again, find out how thin they had to stretch their military resources. He started walking with Bard, a habit they had gotten into months ago and it was good for them to be seen keeping the alliance in place. "My children take after most Sindar in their looks." 

And after their mother, though he didn't say that. The implication made Bard give him a small smile of understanding.

"Except Legolas," he pointed out.

"Ah," Thranduil responded, remembering his words to Tilda, "but Legolas I found down by the cabbage patch. It was his fairness that made it clear he was mine." 

At this Bard shot him a look as if he was truly taking into account that the children of Elves regularly came from the cabbage fields. Thranduil couldn't help but smirk at him to encourage him further along that line of thought. After a while, Bard shook his head and murmured something unfavourable about Elves Thranduil chose not to hear.

"Where is Tauriel? She should have been able to able to clear this up." While Tauriel had come into his direct service long after Duinhir had gone east, she had met him often enough. So had some of the other Elvish inhabitants of Dale, but they were not soldiers and had not been outside the walls earlier. 

A vague gesture followed and Bard pulled a displeased face. "She took Bain and some of the older children outside the walls to teach them something about the winter woods. I'm not sure whether I like it, but I had no sufficient argument against it."

In light of potential bandit attacks, this was worrisome but Bard didn't seem concerned about his son's safety. But he trusted Tauriel and so did Thranduil; she knew how to handle herself and she had shown foresight for the safety of Bard's children in the past. 

They arrived at the ramparts and Thranduil looked off into the east. Nothing moved for miles except animals out late looking for forage. The light of day was almost gone, but fires and lamps burned around them now, illuminating the streets enough for the eyes of Men. 

"Can I ask you something?" Bard interrupted their comfortable silence and Thranduil turned a lazy glance at him. "You were very worked up about Duinhir riding for Erebor and then you said something about jewels. Is this about the Arkenstone? You said, when Bilbo wanted to give it to us... I'm— I would like to know, if it affects us."

In his mind's eye, he saw the caves of Menegroth run red with blood again, splashed against the walls and he was once more picking his way over fallen Elves, fallen Dwarves and fallen Elves again. Saw his King dead for a jewel the likes not found again in this world or beyond. No one had truly won those battles, they had only cost blood and lives and plunged countless souls into grief. The Valar had done right by removing that jewel from anyone's grasp. Slowly, he shook his head. "You do not want to know of this."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Bard asked gently. He didn't reach out, though Thranduil knew under different circumstances he might have. He silently thanked the man for knowing better as he tried to banish the images. 

It was getting colder by the minute and he knew that should have bothered Bard, yet he said nothing.

For a long time Thranduil looked into one of the watch fires, weighing his memories against the necessity for anyone in this age to know. As long as those jewels were in the world, they were a danger and he wished for those he cared about to be safe. He had told his children, a long time ago, made sure they would understand what it meant and that in such a kind of war, no one won. With a pang he remembered Legolas' horrified expression and why he had always kept his youngest close by him. 

"I told you there were objects that corrupt those of us with power." Bard nodded, clearly remembering those words. Thranduil took a breath and tried to find words that would convey what needed to be said without eliciting too much horror. "The reason I am alive today is that my father was a man of great foresight. And we were blessed with luck. Many others weren't so lucky and first fell to the blades of Dwarves and then to those of their own kin. I lost twice my King and thrice my home, halls turned into rivers of blood, all over the rights to possess jewels even the Valar coveted for their light and beauty."

He could hear Bard breathe next to him, but for the longest time that was the only sound between them. He tried to banish the images once more as well as the subsequent memories of dragonfire and molten stone and strive—of his father's slain body—from his mind with limited success. 

"The Arkenstone…?" Bard finally whispered, only his tone making it a question and even that only just. 

Thranduil glanced at him, just long enough to judge his state of mind and his expression was aghast, pale in the firelight. "I do not know. I only ever saw one of them up close, but if I had to judge, then yes."

"What was that like?"

He forced a small smile on his face. "You can see it right now in the western sky, where the Valar granted clemency to Eärendil and gave us hope. Gil-Estel is more than a guiding light to the Eldar." 

Bard stared at him, then muttered, "Elves."

Laughing a little against his will, Thranduil nodded and turned serious again. "I told you our history is long and varied. As for that jewel, it is better off guarded by Thorin Oakenshield. If ever you find someone looking for it, take your people and run in the direction opposite."

"That is not what you did," Bard answered quietly. 

Catching his glance and holding it, Thranduil shook his head. "Had my fears been real, I would have been unable to do anything but witness. I would have been unable to keep your town safe, but my people are here. I never relinquish responsibilities towards what is mine."

He knew Bard would understand the deeper meaning of his words. The moment dragged on for several heartbeats in which Bard searched his eyes. Thranduil couldn't understand what he found or how Thranduil measured against his expectations, but then he said, "Is that one of those stories you didn't want to tell?"

"And it is one I will need to tell in spite of that in greater detail," he answered gruffly. Too much of his past was drenched in blood to avoid it, far too easily partitioned into episodes. This past age had been downright peaceful, if he discounted the spiders and the trouble with the Dwarves last year. The reemergence of Sauron presented a profound break of this fragile calm, although Thranduil knew he almost should have expected it.

In answer Bard looked out into the darkness, then he shivered and turned to Thranduil again. "I'm cold. Let's get inside, I have some excellent wine. My neighbour in the woods makes sure I always have a stock."

"Indeed? Sounds like I should meet him," Thranduil answered and set out after the man to the recently completed Lord's House. He tried to shake the memories, to only focus on Bard and his very real presence in this moment.

"Maybe you should," Bard answered and drew him into a kiss in the dark.

When he arrived back in his halls the next day, Tilda was waiting in his study. She sat in his chair, looked around curiously from that vantage point and fiddled with the silver bracelet on her wrist that Thranduil had given her for her birthday. He had sent both girls home for their birthdays, but they lived here, they were due a present. 

Now he looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "Is there something I may do for you, your majesty?"

She glanced up at him and grinned before hopping off the chair and stepping towards him. "Can you talk to Sigrid?"

"What about?" he asked her and steered her towards the bench with the multi-coloured cushions with a hand on her shoulder. When he sat, she let herself fall down next to him.

Tilda sighed dramatically, making Thranduil suppress a smile. "She's really angry."

"About what?" It couldn't be his trip to Dale, that had been unplanned, and both girls went to Dale by themselves with an escort when they wanted. 

"I don't know," the girl complained and slumped over his lap, not looking at him but moodily staring off towards the pool. He carted through her hair where it wasn't gathered into Elvish plaits to try and tame it. As usual, it was hopeless but he got it a bit disentangled. "Elves, I think."

Thranduil raised both eyebrows, then rested his hand on her back. "Whatever have we done?" he asked, his voice overly dramatic and she turned to grin at him, digging a sharp elbow into his thigh as she pushed herself back into a sitting position. She slumped back next to him, head against his side.

"Go talk to her." Tilda had grown comfortable with him after her nighttime breakdown, asking him for stories and to show her things. Maybe he was spoiling her, but he enjoyed having the girls around and they'd never been disruptive to his routines. He wondered though whether Bard would thank him when they returned to Dale eventually.

He glanced down at her still sulking and grabbed her around the waist suddenly, then stood up. Tilda squealed in delight and laughter as he carried her up the stairs. He sat her down eventually and she crossed her arms over her chest in defiance. "You'll talk to her?"

"I will," he told her, which earned him a beaming smile before she ran off. He wondered if she had noticed they'd conducted that whole conversation in Sindarin, or if she even cared. 

Almost predictably, he found Sigrid at the range where she emptied a quiver of arrows into a target. She intentionally spaced them and so arrow after arrow went into the target in neat rows. She was alone, her face a mask of concentration but he could indeed see anger in her eyes. He waited until she had emptied the quiver before stepping towards her.

"Your father sends his love," he told her.

She nodded in acknowledgement and went to retrieve more arrows. When she nocked the first one, he corrected the position of her elbow and then took it down. "What do you want, Thranduil?"

He studied her but couldn't make out something that was outwardly wrong. "Something is eating you, I would care to know what."

Blowing out a breath, she let the arrow fly. It hit next to the last one. "You Elves and your rules and customs. What is the point."

Waiting, it became clear she wouldn't elaborate, but she also wasn't looking at him. "When you live as long as we do, it serves to have some order."

"And that's why there are no children here?" she asked so quietly that the ears of Men might have missed it. Thranduil had waited out generals and kings, he could wait out a child of Men. He could spare the time for her to work through her anger. "When are times ever peaceful? Or easy? Before the dragon came?"

Nocking another arrow, she took aim and sent it off. 

Thranduil had known she and Cúthalion had been growing closer than he had initially anticipated. They both had all but admitted to it in the past, though he was rather sure Bard had no idea as of yet. But Sigrid was young, Thranduil had not expected these kinds of problems quite yet, though he had already put the pieces together when she mentioned the lack of children. He waited for her to empty the quiver again before asking, "What brought this on?"

Pursing her lips, she still stared at the target as if she could will the arrows back into her hands. "I put my notes together." She turned and looked at him, her eyes hard. "Why didn't you send me away?"

"You wanted to stay," he reminded her, and he kept his tone completely without inflection. "This is entirely about you."

"And that's the whole problem, isn't it?" She had to look away then and he sighed. 

He had no reason to want her to suffer, but he also wasn't sure she would be willing to listen to him. Matters between mortals and the Eldar were seldom cut as clear as she made them to be; it was something he wished he could have impressed on Tauriel before that situation had derailed so completely. Though of course, Tauriel had overstepped more boundaries than just that.

It was clear though that Sigrid would not be her usual self in the foreseeable future, so he finally said her name. For many moments she wouldn't look at him, then she took a breath to collect herself, and another. When she finally did turn her eyes to him, he tried to be as neutral as possible.

"Our customs and our laws pertain to us," he told her, "not to you. We have children in times of peace because we bind them to this world the way we are bound. We want to do what we can to keep them safe from war and hostility. It is a luxury we can afford in our long lives. Yet the same custom says we do not wed in times of conflict and strife, but I have not been in a war where that held true."

He watched emotions he couldn't identify do battle behind her eyes, but continued unabated, "Our dealings with mortals are subject to our own conscience and decisions. You live here, and you belong, but you are not of the Eldar, and we do not treat you as such. If we do not follow all our laws and customs with the rest of your life, why should we in this one aspect?"

Having said what was necessary, he left her standing where she did and went up to the solar. The clouds threatened snow, hanging low and heavy in the sky. Matters between mortals and the Eldar were seldom clear cut, and with the world at the brink again, they would not be easier in the future. But Sigrid didn't need to know that yet. She was young and decisions would be made in due time, if they needed to be made at all.

None of that took into account what Bard would have to say about this.

~*~

"Feren." Thranduil didn't look up when his captain reported in.

"The nest has been destroyed, my Lord," Feren stated and Thranduil nodded, finishing the letter he was drafting with a flourish. The spiders were keeping their distance at the beginning of spring, but he was waiting for the first signs of green leaves before making any judgements on the state of the Woods. 

He looked up at his watch captain. "Have we had any news from Aldarion?"

Besides Elrond's semi-regular naggings, only Aldarion had so far seen it fit to let Thranduil know he had met up with Legolas. He didn't know whether his youngest son was still bitter about his decisions to banish Tauriel and not interfere on her behalf, but he did know Legolas kept his silence. Apparently he had met up with the son of Arathorn and joined him in the wild, albeit Aldarion and Lucan still dwelled along the rivers supplying Imladris rather than accompanying them.

Thranduil was well aware his children could fend for themselves, but never had all of them been away like this before. 

Feren hesitated, then shook his head. "No my Lord, but the pass into Imladris has only recently thawed. We have reports of movements along the Anduin, bandits and smaller groups with horses, likely out of Rohan."

The Rohirrim again. Thranduil had always perceived them as a proud people, fair when he bought their horses and concerned about their own. They were also proud enough to weather much hardship, but matters under King Fengel were difficult. Thengel, heir to the throne, had sought refuge in exile in Gondor with the Steward, but of course that was not a permanent solution. Though eventually time would solve this matter for him.

Until then, apparently, they would have to deal with a continuous diaspora out of the horse lands. "If they wander into our territory, let them pass and direct them on the road towards Dale. Offer them assistance, if they require it."

It took a few heartbeats until Feren answered, "Yes, my Lord."

Feren's obvious surprise made Thranduil smirk and send him off to his duties. Dale already had a sizeable Rohirric population, this was the logical course. 

Thranduil glanced at the glittering water in the middle of the room, thinking back to the day Legolas and Tauriel had brought in Thorin and his company. Since then he had done what he could, knowing what was at stake but without concrete events to counteract. He could only hope it was enough, for the Woodland Realm, for his sons, for Bard and his city. He could only hope it was enough and shore up his defenses for as long as this brittle peacetime lasted.

~*~

"Thranduil!" Sigrid called from down the stairs and clattered upwards, only to stand before him mud spattered and travel stained, rainwater streaming down off her clothes.

Raising an eyebrow, Thranduil glanced at Cúthalion who appeared behind her, but the archer merely shrugged, indicating he couldn't have changed matters if he had tried. It also meant he hadn't tried. 

"We need to talk," she said firmly, drawing Thranduil's attention back to her. 

He turned and walked over to the table to pour them some wine. Sigrid had calmed down after her tantrum, though they did not talk about the situation further. Thranduil trusted that she would come to him if she felt the need for further discussion. 

"I'm not going to tell your father about his grandchildren," he said.

"I'm not—" She interrupted herself, flushed and then turned pale.

Smiling to take away the sting, he handed her a cup. "I know you are not." Cúthalion—carefully unmoving and looking nowhere in particular—remained at a distance, indicating he was not here on a social occasion and Thranduil refrained from offering him drink. "You will do well to remember that for the future, though. What did you want to discuss?"

Glowering at him, she pursed her lips, then gave in. "Da."

Sigrid was a perceptive girl and Thranduil had never harboured any illusions about whether she knew in what way he and her father were involved. Still, it gave him pause when she said it. She had spent the last few days in Dale, Cúthalion had been part of her escort. Thranduil supposed that she took him along to get Bard used to the idea of him. 

"Oh?" he questioned, the very picture of indifference.

At this she let out a breath and shook her head. "Does nothing move you?" Her tone was annoyed, but he knew that if it had been something dire, she would have sent word ahead. He looked at her with exactly those thoughts on his mind and she read the flatness of his expression correctly, then sighed. "I know all the people in Dale who lived on the Long Lake before."

He nodded. One of the reasons the people of Dale had been willing to spend the first winter in Thranduil's realm had been because Bard had sent both girls along and Bard had been a well-liked man in Esgaroth. "Are the people of Dale unhappy with your father?"

That would surprise Thranduil, but the memory of Men was short. But Sigrid shook her head, suddenly hesitant. Curious. As much as the girl had come into her own, sometimes he forgot just how much maturity differed between Men and Eldar. She grasped for words, then gave that up and simply said, "They don't like sitting there, between two kings and waiting for one them to be fed up with those Men in front of their door. They trust you, they know you helped us through that first growing season when they had nothing. They know you still help us. But they feel … inconsequential."

Men were short-lived, prone to petty conflict and many of them could do with a bath more often, but they were children of Eru and therefore hardly inconsequential. Thranduil tilted his head. "And what do you suppose I do about it?"

"I don't know!" She raised her hands, palms up, then dropped them. Her frustration was almost palpable, but so was her determination to do the best she could by her father. "I thought you should know about it. I'm not sure there is something to do, but if it affects Da, I don't want that."

Her chin was raised in stubborn defiance and Thranduil nodded his understanding. "Does your father know about this?"

Thinking about it, she eventually shook her head. "No one says this to Da, they like him too much. Maybe Bain does, but I didn't want to ask."

"Very well. Now get out, you're dripping on my floor." After a last evaluating glance she turned and headed for the stairs when he added, "Cúthalion, stay for a word."

Sigrid's eyes widened fractionally but her step only faltered for a split second, but her steps stopped echoing up eventually. Looking out over the overhang where rain still poured over the forest, tinged ever so slightly with ash from a volcanic eruption down south, Thranduil shook his head. Then he walked to the small writing table and penned a short missive, summoned one of his guards.

"Take this to Erebor, make sure you remain inconspicuous," he told him. 

The guard looked at him with confusion. "My Lord, to Dale, isn't it?"

"No," Thranduil said but kept the small scroll in his hands. "Return to your post." Shaking his head, he turned to Cúthalion and handed him the scroll. "Ride to Erebor, no one in Dale should see you. The weather will favour you in this. Make sure this reaches Dáin and wait for an answer."

The young archer nodded and wrapped the scroll in oilcloth that he produced from around his person. When he turned around, Thranduil called him back. "Your rank and standing here will mean nothing if you do anything to hurt her. And I am not speaking of her heart. Make her understand what it will mean, for her and for you. She is mortal, and any children will be as well."

No matter how much Thranduil cherished his people, none of them carried the importance that Elwing or Eärendil had and would not be granted a choice. Thus it had always been when one of his people had entered into a union with one of the mortals living in and around the Woods. 

Cúthalion looked up, but contemplated a spot next to Thranduil's ear for a while before he briefly met his glance and then looked away in obeisance. The consequence, then, was clear to him. "What can I do, my Lord?"

The question was largely rhetoric; the options were clear and none of them were wholly attractive. Cúthalion, like Sigrid, had a choice to make.

"Nothing," Thranduil told him, inflected with his usual condescension. "You have your orders."

"Yes, my Lord," Cúthalion said and turned away, his steps silent on the stairs.

~*~

Tauriel waited for him in the no man's land that neither Thranduil nor any other force claimed as their own, though his Elves patrolled the road even out of sight of the Woods. She was still banished and thus not permitted on his land, but this did not constitute a breach of that verdict.

"You are far off your post," he noted as she turned around her mount and joined him. After a gesture from him, the rest of his force fell back to give them the semblance of a private conversation.

She looked away and pursed her lips. Of course that was not currently his call to make and he shot her a mild glance at this. "My Lord, I heard you were bypassing Dale this day. I would discuss a matter outside the city walls."

"I should have known the Dwarves would not be able to keep this to themselves." He shook his head; he was not truly surprised one of Dáin's circle had told Tauriel, by all accounts the Dwarves respected her. That, too, was a curious development but one that now played into Thranduil's hands. "What is it you would speak to me about?"

They passed a marker on the road that had been placed by Men so many generations ago that the chiseled words had overgrown with moss and lichen where they hadn't withered away. Tauriel's eyes never left the road until she said, "I have never been informed what consequences I would face in regards to the incident with the prince last autumn."

Only one of Thranduil's sons had been even close to Dale at that time, and the only incident had been Duinhir's folly. He sighed inaudibly and glanced over at Tauriel, who was visibly bracing herself. "What did Lord Bard say?"

"He asked whether he might be faced with more surprises." She seemed confused.

"Your answer?" he asked levelly.

At this she shot him a puzzled glance. "I told him he at least had now met all princes of the Woodland Realm. My Lord, what is the meaning—"

Cutting herself off she shook her head.

Thranduil kept his silence long enough to give her the opportunity to think about its implications. 

Eventually he said, "Tauriel, you remember why you are in Dale."

"To earn my place back," she answered quietly. "To help the Men and teach them."

Over the centuries that Thranduil had advanced Tauriel into the position she had held in the end, failure had not been a frequent occurrence for her. They had not always been of the same opinion, but he had been her commander and she his captain and followed his orders until the incidence with the Dwarves. Apparently now she considered her absence during the situation with Duinhir a failure that warranted punishment. 

"No one was harmed, aside from Duinhir's pride. From what I hear, you fulfilled your duties elsewhere at the time. But even if I were to blame you, I have pointed out to Lord Bard repeatedly that you are not currently under my command." He glanced at her with his head turned just enough so she would know he was doing it, face schooled into impassivity. "It is not upon me to mete out punishment."

Her startled gaze brushed by his own before she looked back at the road. He studied her in silence as she quietly said, "Of course, my Lord."

For effect's sake he let this sit between them; she had known him for a long time and knew Thranduil's forgiveness was not earned easily. The well-being of his people lay in the balance with his decisions and everyone in his service had to be held accountable for their actions to the same degree. Yet mistakes were made and should be repented accordingly.

Dale came into view in the distance and they took the circuit route to bypass the city and approach the Mountain without being seen by Men. It was only then that he told her, "Tauriel, your place is in my kingdom, this has not changed. And I thought it understood that I did not put the safety of Dale into your hands lightly."

It took a moment, but then a smile flit across her features as she realised the full implication of his words and she sat her horse a bit straighter still. Thranduil turned his own eyes back on the road with a satisfied smile of his own. Let time move forward again, he thought as he surveyed the Lonely Mountain, most of his attention already on his meeting with Dáin to discuss the future of a certain Dragonslayer. They would be prepared.

~*~

When he woke up, Thranduil had a warm body in bed next to him and he opened his eyes to the twilight of pre-dawn in summer. Bard was awake and knew he was, too. Sighing, the man propped himself up on an elbow and looked at Thranduil.

"What is it?" he asked quietly and Bard's expression was unreadable for a moment.

Then he leaned over to kiss Thranduil quickly in what might have been reassurance, tangled the free hand in his hair before pulling back, reestablishing their space. "After the battle for the Mountain, and what you said about the Arkenstone, and the Last Alliance…"

Thranduil looked away briefly, and Bard touched his shoulder in apology. When he looked back Bard searched his eyes and Thranduil nodded. In the end he had told Bard and given him the record so he would know. So he would ask. Still, he had not expected the words that followed. "You are not truly immortal, are you?"

Frowning, Thranduil tried to parse the words for deeper meaning but came up blank. "I was born in the First Age, I think that speaks for itself."

That sheer length of time was clearly not something Bard could grasp, but he shook his head anyway. "But how many of those are left? Elves that were born in the First Age?"

"That you or me might meet here? A handful," Thranduil answered, trying to come up with a list in his head, but gave up, because he couldn't know who might have sailed in the meantime. 

"Which proves my point. I saw you fight, the way you lead your men from the front…" Bard shrugged.

He considered it; he had only ever fought the way he had been taught by his father, who had been a great warrior. It was in part due to that fact that had let him and Thranduil survive the events in Doriath. "I can be slain," he allowed. "But even then I go to the Halls of Mandos to await my time. Your spirit truly moves beyond what is within our grasp. You are free to shape your fate."

Light was starting to creep into the room, but it was still very early. Bard looked away to think about those words, shook his head after a long time. "I'm not sure whether death and disease is worth that freedom."

Men would think so. Men who had experienced loss in their lives even more so. Still, there were other perspectives.

Thranduil shifted his weight. They were close enough that he could feel the warmth of Bard's body, but he didn't reach out to touch. "It is called the Gift of Men. I know you may not consider it such, but your fate is sundered from this world and even we Eldar do not know where you go. This was bestowed on you by Ilúvatar for you are cherished." Bard's eyes were locked on his and Thranduil put a small smile on his face. "As far as I can tell you... Disease will not contribute to the natural end of your life."

Startled, Bard's eyes widened momentarily and he swallowed. "Truly. You can know this." None of his words were questions.

"I know this," Thranduil told him with certainty and leaned forward to press a kiss on his forehead. Even if he hadn't known, he would have made certain to ensure it; he had no way or desire to mitigate mortality, but he could keep Bard in sufficient health. At least until that time came.

He pulled back and Bard studied him. "Is this a prophecy?"

Chuckling almost against his will, Thranduil shook his head. He didn't know whether Bard had a true grasp on what his powers were and whether he knew of Thranduil's foresight, yet he had hinted at it before. "No. Knowing something of the future is not prophecy."

At this Bard cracked a smile and leaned over, kissed him slow and gentle. "I would not know the future beyond this assurance."

"You shall not." It was enough if Thranduil knew that decades from now he would bid Bard farewell, _You can go now, it will be all right._ , that Bard would smile, _I never doubted you would be._ , and that Bard would not wake up the next morning. That time was far enough away though for Thranduil not to concern himself with it in this moment. Instead he reached out and drew the man in for a kiss less slow and more hungry. 

He lost himself in Bard's warmth and his body then, ignoring for the moment thoughts of mortality and the knowledge of what was even now gathering strength in the shadow.

It was rare for Bard to stay more than a night or two in the Woodland Realm with Dale still , very much under construction over the past year. But now he said he wanted to give Bain a chance to prove he could handle himself, and the Wood was at a perfect distance. Thranduil couldn't say he minded, Bard was easy company and easy on the eyes. Having Bard in his bed at night was an added benefit, but they had grown close beyond that over the past year.

They were at the range now, and watching Bard shoot was something Thranduil could rightfully claim to be beautiful. The Elvish compound bows were not his usual fare, but Thranduil had known the lords of Dale and their weapons of choice for a long time and produced a long bow for him to use. It was of Elvish make and Bard stroked over the wood with care and not little fascination before stringing it to test the draw. 

Bard was a seasoned archer, a skill he needed to survive, to feed his family, but Thranduil could not help but appreciate the deliberate and well measured movements as he nocked the first arrow. The tip buried itself in the target and the concentration on his face relaxed. 

"Fine piece of craftwork," he said and shot another arrow. "Not very useful in your Woods though, I would assume."

"No," Thranduil told him, "but I have an army, I need an arsenal."

Bard shot him a mocking smile telling him he knew that wasn't the whole truth and was inspecting some of the fletching when Sigrid and Cúthalion stepped in. The girl was laughing but sobered a little when she saw her father. Nevertheless she went to be enveloped in his arms. 

"What brings you here?" he asked as she stepped back, shot a brief look to Cúthalion over her shoulder. Raising both eyebrows, Thranduil took half a step back to watch. 

"I wanted to come shoot. Why don't you join us?" Sigrid encouraged and went to retrieve one of the bows she usually used. It sounded hasty, nervous, and Bard's eyes narrowed. 

He started to answer but then Galion came up to them. "My Lord, there is a Dwarf in the kitchen."

Thranduil glanced quickly at Bard, who was now also frowning, before turning to Galion. "At the very least the guards let him inside the gates this time." 

"Thranduil?" Bard inquired.

He raised a mocking eyebrow. "You wanted me to work with the Dwarves. This is when you reap the consequences."

Clearly Bard wanted to say something, but this time he was interrupted by Sigrid who sighed, "Da," in a way that made clear something rested heavy on her heart. Thranduil short her a glance, saw the way she stood close to Cúthalion. Well, if today was the day for this decision, at least that would distract Bard from the presence of a Dwarf in Thranduil's halls. 

He followed Galion, his thoughts still with what was happening at the range right now. He had told Sigrid in no uncertain terms that if she wanted this, she would have to be the one who told her father. And Thranduil knew that was a hurdle she dreaded to cross, but this had been her decision. Well, her and Cúthalion's; Thranduil just hoped the archer had heeded his words.

He recognised the Dwarf in the kitchens as one of Thorin's company, because of course it would be. He hadn't imagined one of them would be keen to once more be within Thranduil's halls, but maybe that was something Dáin had intended. Though if he thought it would make Thranduil uncomfortable, he was sorely mistaken.

A wooden box sat next to the Dwarf, who dubiously eyed the food that had been offered to him, though that didn't stop him from eating it. Within his mass of hair and beard, his face could hardly be seen.

"What is your name?" Thranduil would at least have the name of his guest, however unwilling both of them would use the term. 

"Glóin," the Dwarf offered reluctantly. It was a habit of Dwarves to not give their true names to outsiders, and Thranduil suspected that they were hesitant even about the ones they used to deal with the same outsiders. He eyed him, then offered, "The summer is too cold."

At this Thranduil studied him before tilting his head in acceptance of those words. Truth was that temperatures were lower than usual, likely due to the ash in the air. They would remain unaffected in the woods, but he could see why the Dwarf would be concerned. If the harvest failed in Dale, the Dwarves would be affected. Both the city as well as Erebor had sufficient funds to buy and import food and seed, but it bode ill if this happened in their second season.

"I would think the Dwarves of Erebor are used to worse hardships," Thranduil pointed out.

Sneering, Glóin frowned and when he answered his accent grew thicker, "I still need not like it."

Thranduil acknowledged that with a nod and decided the pleasantries between them had been exhausted. He gestured at the box. "This is it?" 

"King Dáin sends this with the hopes that it meets your standards." With that Glóin turned back to his food.

Shaking his head, Thranduil took the box and opened it, murmuring, "It does not need to meet my standards." That was true, this wasn't for Thranduil's benefit, after all. But the Dwarves had done fine work, the metal of the circlet was a burnished gold with just enough polish to make sure everyone could identify it as such. It was wrought in several strands of interwoven gold, a filigree leaf design etched along one of them, arrows opposing flames symbolised by gems on another. He didn't doubt the Dwarves had left their mark on the last one, even though he could not see anything. The gems for the flames and along the rest of the crown had come from Thranduil's stores and were exquisitely set. He closed the box again, nodded at the Dwarf. "Tell Dáin his excellent work is appreciated."

Glóin glowered at him as if to judge whether he meant what he said, then mumbled something that was muffled by his substantial beard. Thranduil felt gracious enough to ignore it. "Will you take it back with you or am I keeping it?"

Startled, he looked up. "Dáin assumed the Elvenking would want it to remain."

"It will go back to Dale eventually," Thranduil said, "but I leave the decision to you."

It turned out his Dwarvish guest had no interest in carrying it back, so the box and its contents would remain with Thranduil for the time being. When the Dwarf was back on his way and the box safely stored, he went back to his study, where he found a very irate Dragonslayer. 

Bard stepped over to him. "Did you know?"

Even if it had been in Thranduil's nature, it was no use to pretend otherwise. "Not in so many words. She lives in my halls, it is hard to miss."

"And you did not think to tell me?" He began pacing, while Thranduil remained still and merely watched. 

"That was not my place," he told him. "Besides, this is not a consummated union." Bard faltered mid step and stared at him in horror. Shaking his head, Thranduil shrugged. "Tell me, when did girls on the lake find their husbands?"

"That has nothing to do with this!" 

"It has everything to do with this." He went over to Bard and steered him towards the cushioned bench. "The girl is a Lady of Dale, she will need a husband. You know that, if nothing else, Cúthalion is utterly reliable and you hardly have time to vet any future suitors. And most important, they like each other, that is the most critical in any match."

Bard refused to sit, but at least he would look again at Thranduil. "How much older is he than her?" At this, Thranduil raised a mocking eyebrow. It was one of the aspects where Bard really had very little ground to stand on. But Bard shook his head. "That's different."

"Is it?" Thranduil echoed with disdain. He had impressed on Bard—and his elder daughter, for that matter—the fundamental difference between mortals and the Eldar and he thought it had been understood. His people did, once they had seen generations of Men come and go, which was why he had known how to hurt Tauriel when she had drawn the arrow on him. 

"Yes," Bard answered immediately though. "Don't you think I know that I've lived most of my life allowed to me already? I've made my experiences, had my losses, fought my battles. I never expected you—this—and I'm not letting go of it, but thirty years ago? I don't think you would have liked me very much. I certainly didn't even know what to do with the idea of Elves, and I've seen Legolas cavort through the woods all my life."

Thirty years ago Bard had been an impatient child with little understanding what was happening around him, speaking few words of Sindarin to hopefully impress the Elvenking in his halls and receive his family's commission. Thranduil had known who he was, of course, but thought him of little consequence with the dragon still in the Mountain. Still, the thought of Bard in his teenage years watching Legolas on the shore with too many questions and possibly contempt elicited an involuntary smile from Thranduil. 

Bard smiled back a little and reached out, cupped his face. Thranduil felt a thumb trace his cheekbone and turned slightly into the caress, barely touching his lips to Bard's palm. It only lasted a second before the hand was dropped again.

"But Sigrid, she is so young," he continued, voice quiet. And maybe she was even more so for Bard, who had let her go to live elsewhere over a year ago.

"You lived in Esgaroth, she lives here and may go on to live in Dale." The man nodded, but Thranduil could see that didn't change anything. It would likely take a while until Bard was used to the idea that his daughters were growing up. Thranduil didn't want to give him empty words along the lines of nothing being decided yet; Sigrid had very much made up her mind and Bard knew his children. Instead he tried to lighten the mood, "See the bright side, your grandchildren will be exceedingly pretty."

The laugh that broke out of Bard was genuine and he finally sank down on the cushions. "They would have been beautiful anyway, the girls are stunning. No wonder an Elf would fall for her. Will they have pointy ears?"

Smiling, Thranduil deliberated for a moment and sat down next to him before teasing, "Probably. Will that be a problem?"

A sideways glance and a lopsided smile followed. "No, I find I'm quite fond of them." Thranduil smirked, Bard leaned back against the back of the bench with a groan. "Can we stop talking about how my daughter suddenly decided she needs to be an adult? I need a few days to get used to that thought."

"Well." Thranduil got up and poured them both a cup of wine, the one he handed to Bard filled to the brim and he waited until he had drunk a few generous sips. "If I may take your mind off that issue, we have another matter to discuss."

Bard took another deep swallow of wine and leaned back against the bench. "We do? What would that be?"

"Your coronation," Thranduil said conversationally and watched as all colour drained from his face, the cup wobbling in his hands. Reaching out to prevent the wine from spilling, Thranduil took it and set it on the low table next to him. 

Several moments passed before Bard seemed to find his voice again. "What?"

"I spoke to my people in Dale and and I spoke to Dáin—"

"You. You talked to Dáin." His voice was without inflection, as if after the initial shock, nothing could faze him anymore. 

Thranduil smiled. "This is all on you, insisting we form an alliance. I spoke to Dáin about the matter that had been brought before me pertaining a sentiment that seems to have spread among your people. Apparently they have the feeling of not being adequate enough as a merely ennobled city in between two kingdoms."

"What? No one—" Bard broke off, shook his head. Thranduil handed him back the wine, topped off with some from his own cup. 

"And why would they?" he asked while Bard took a few shaky sips. "They appreciate you as their lord and they would have to assume you could not change this situation either way."

The cup was handed back, empty. "And they came to you? Dáin?"

"No. And it matters not. What does is that we decided to alleviate this feeling of inadequacy. You will be crowned after the harvest is in this year, I suppose by then your people will have the time to appreciate it." Dáin had been surprisingly amenable to his proposition, but then the city of Dale was contributing considerably to Erebor's trading network and food supply. By all accounts, Bard and the King under the Mountain had a good working relationship; Dáin could only be interested in keeping the people of Dale happy. Enough that he had even suffered the Elvenking in his halls.

Bard slowly shook his head. "I have no claim to a kingship!" he protested, but the argument was weak and his grimace told Thranduil he knew it.

"What, in your opinion, makes for a proper claim on a kingship? Land is given freely in gift or payment for services rendered." He sighed and launched into an abbreviated account of the origin of the kingdoms Bard might have heard of, "The Valar made Númenor for Elros, Arnor and Gondor were taken with no more legitimisation than that the Faithful were spared by Eru Ilúvatar, Rohan was given to Eorl by a Steward of Gondor not five of your centuries ago, my father was accepted here as lord and became king as the highest noble of Thingol's court to escape the swords, and Durin took Moria simply because he could."

Briefly, Bard blinked and when it looked as if he wanted to say something, Thranduil held up a hand to stay him for a moment longer. 

"You are of noble blood and you are the Dragonslayer, if you made yourself king hat would be legitimisation enough. Since you will not do this, you will have to accept Dáin and my endorsement as your claim."

That seemed to push him over the edge and the man covered his face with his hands, groaning. "Can't you find none better?"

"Do not be ridiculous," Thranduil told him with a chastising frown. "You _will_ be crowned. In fact, I will crown you and now stop arguing."

While that was not a detail Dáin and he had agreed on so far, Bard needed to understand that he didn't have another option. Their gazes locked and Thranduil could see the hesitation and questions. He knew Bard didn't feel cut out to rule anyone, let alone plunge himself and his children into that life. But he also was a descendent of a bloodline whose scions had always known their duties and fulfilled them, who had earned the favour of the Eldar, and Thranduil had found the same attributes in Bard.

Finally, the man closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath, echoed something he had said at the very beginning of their alliance, "I can't win this, can I?"

"No," Thranduil told him and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Bard's eyes opened at the contact and he squeezed gently. "You slew a dragon. I have seen the devastation they wreak long ago, it is no small feat. Compared to that, ruling a kingdom is almost easy."

"Almost," Bard huffed, unconvinced, but the muscles under Thranduil's hand lost some of their rigidity. "You know, I swore I would never again do the part with the dragon killing."

"You will not have to." Thranduil smirked. "With Smaug dead, most of them appear to be gone, the greatest of them slain during the First Age."

"How reassuring." Bard's tone was dry, then he took a breath. "You were serious?"

Thranduil knew him well enough to realise he wasn't speaking of dragons or anything related to them. "After the harvest," he emphasised. "I suggest you inform your people."

At this Bard nodded, looking exhausted after two revelations of this magnitude in one day. Watching Thranduil for objection, he took his hand from his shoulder and brought it around to press a barely damp kiss on the backs of Thranduil's fingers. "Any more surprises?"

He curled his fingers in to return the grip and received a glance and a smile in response. "None I am aware of," he allowed and gathered both their cups when his hand was released. Bard looked like he could use more wine, but then the man also pushed off the bench and followed him. Curious, Thranduil turned around and was hauled into an embrace against a warm, muscled body, his mouth claimed in a hungry kiss that he returned with equal enthusiasm.

He slipped his hands into Bard's tunic at the back and began to trail his fingers over the skin there. A small groan was pushed into his mouth when he hit a sensitive spot just above his hip with the right amount of pressure. Bard then broke the kiss and rested their foreheads together while keeping him close with one arm still wrapped around Thranduil's waist. They stood like this for a while, content in each other's presence.

"Would you care to take this somewhere else?" he asked after a time, having brought his hands up to frame Bard's face, tilted it upwards to drop a kiss on his lips with every other word.

Bard hummed in contemplation and then agreement when Thranduil deepened the kisses again. "That might be good," came the mumbled answer in between, although it still took them a while to actually make their way to Thranduil's bed.

Once there and with considerable more access to what usually lay beneath their clothes, flashes of pleasure soon zinged along Thranduil's flesh. Bard was trailing his lips down his chest and stomach, breathing damp warmth against his exposed skin and placing sharp nips along his way. Thranduil felt a muscle jerk involuntarily and Bard chuckled low in his chest before pressing his lips to the spot one more time and then moved up again. He buried his hands in Thranduil's hair, kissed him deeply. 

It wasn't about distraction or gratefulness, Thranduil knew that. Bard could hardly care less about the kingship and they might play at their original reasoning for this, but both their appreciation went far beyond that. Still, he quite liked this additional, playful layer of their entanglement.

He let Bard set the pace for a little while before rolling them around and pinning him to the mattress with both hands on his shoulders. His hair fell around them both and Bard blew a strand off his face when he let out a sudden breath and glanced up at him with both eyebrows raised. Meanwhile Thranduil flexed his hands and smirked. He deliberately infused his words with power to make them reverberate down to the bones, "Keep in mind, right now only one of us in this bed is a king."

"Oh?" Bard asked, eyes glinting with amusement. "Then I guess I have better learn by his wise counsel. What is it that takes the king's fancy now?"

"I would rather advise you," Thranduil told him. He had straddled Bard's hips and now felt not just his warm body stirring beneath him but also the man's hands stroke along the underside of his thighs as far as they would go with Thranduil still pinning his shoulders. He debated whether it was worth to let him go to give him more access. "And I suppose I could show you."

"By all means", Bard laughed into the kiss that followed, "go ahead."

Thranduil did, taking his time about it, testing Bard's previously praised patience. At least until Bard growled at him and Thranduil lost his train of thought for a while.


	4. Epilogue

The morning of Bard's coronation dawned cold and foggy and when Thranduil got out of bed, he made sure Bard would stay warm while he still slept. Before long the sun would burn off the fog and warm up the day, and that was more than too many days of the past summer. There had been enough late warm spells to save the harvest, but Thranduil knew it had been borderline critical this year. The weather responded to the events in the south and the effects were potentiated in their northern climate. 

He stood in front of the Lord's House, watching the concourse of the city. The people of Dale had come far in the last two years, short a time as that was, and now was the moment to take the next step. Matters were peaceful in the east, for now. The winter, cold as it would be, might finally be a time to rest for everyone.

A change in the air told him he wasn't alone anymore and a moment later Bard stepped up close to him, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. "You mean for me to go through with this?"

Thranduil kept his silence for a time, his stance communicating indifference. When he did turn towards Bard, he did so as the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm. "You will not deny your people."

Upon this Bard closed his eyes in acknowledgement and took a breath that was too deep not to be deliberate. Leaving him to his own thoughts for the moment, Thranduil turned to go back inside, not entirely accidentally brushing against him as he did so. 

When Thranduil returned to the Lord's House, the ruckus in the kitchen told him that all three children were up already and he followed the noise. 

"Bain at least _try_ not to rip the seam this time," Sigrid told her brother with a roll of her eyes. She barely acknowledged Thranduil but indicated a place at the table still empty with a steaming bowl in front of it. "How do you even manage that?"

"I'm growing!" her brother exclaimed in answer and stripped out of a lined jacket that was too tight in the shoulders. And indeed, the boy had grown over the past year, with better food and fewer infections. Muscles had formed in his shoulders and upper body, he was coming into his own.

Watching the display with some amusement, Thranduil sat next to Tilda and reached for the bread and cheese on the table. The bowl contained a thin broth he used to sop the bread while watching the siblings squabble. 

Tilda scooted up to him. "Is Cúthalion going to have to live with that, too?" she asked and he shot her a glance. Of course she knew. He wondered when those two were going to make it official. 

"Probably," he answered and handed her the tea when her arms wouldn't reach.

She poured some for him as well and then said, "I don't envy him."

"She is your sister," Thranduil admonished as Bain, in a new jacket, sat down across from him.

"Exactly," Tilda proclaimed with a satisfied smile that made Bain look at them curiously.

Snorting, Thranduil shook his head and then Bain said, "I sure know why Elves have fewer girls. No nagging sisters."

"Does Tauriel know you think like that?" he asked curiously.

Bain looked horrified and even more so when his sister sat down next to him, reaching for the bread to break her own fast.

"Does Tauriel know what?" she asked, ripping the bread apart and dumping it into her broth. "Where's Da?"

Bain covered quickly, "That Elvish women warriors are amazing."

At this Sigrid shot her brother a suspicious glance. With a smile, Thranduil muttered, "I think I just figured out why Elves only have one child at a time."

"And here I thought that was the decades of adolescence," Bard chimed in as he appeared at the table, obviously having come to terms with himself. 

"Da!" came the offended exclamation from three juvenile throats as their father ladled some broth of his own from from the pot still standing on the hot stones next to the hearth. A feast would take place later in the day, but the morning meal was important to get all of them through the events of the next few hours.

Bard winked at Thranduil before dropping a kiss on his elder daughter's head. "I'm joking of course," he told them.

And indeed, his content expression while he idly talked to his children and Thranduil over their meal proved his words true as much as the love that spoke from the children's faces. Thranduil mostly let the conversation wash over him, made some pointed remarked when he thought them suitable. Let Bard have this seeming normalcy. It would change soon enough, even if only in name and not in deed.

"Stop fidgeting," Thranduil growled at him hours later as they waited for the formal entrance to the central square to conduct the ceremony. He handed the box with the crown to Dáin. "You remember what we discussed?"

Dáin squinted at him with disdain. "The pixie thinks I cannot remember my place?" he challenged. "This crown was made in the forges of my forebears you ignorant hussy!"

Thranduil felt his expression slacken in offended shock, but refused to get angry at the Dwarf. Coughing, Bard took a half step between them, warning both of them to keep their wits together and not start another war right now. With a frown, Thranduil made sure the King under the Mountain had a hold of the box before straightening again and drawing Bard away a step. 

"Sometimes I wish my people had skills in metal work," he murmured and looked the man over one last time. He was dressed in soft boots, fine woolen breeches and a silken tunic; he knew Bard had been reluctant, but this was clearly Sigrid's persuasive skill at work. He would do, in any case, though Thranduil would have hoped for some more ceremonial dress. Not that Bard had learned to walk in robes and it probably was better not to have him fall flat on his face today.

Bard raised an eyebrow at him, a pathetic mockery at playfulness considering his nervous fidgeting. "Are you sure you don't want to go first? I would want to prevent bloodshed. Though then at least no one would pay attention to me and everyone would only remember the King under the Mountain and the Elvenking coming to blows."

"Not unless you want me to rule Dale for the next few decades." Bard looked like he was considering that very option to be more than viable. Rolling his eyes subtly, Thranduil stepped up close. "Preceed, Lord of Dale."

It was time, he could feel the anticipation from the square and even though they were in plain sight they should not keep the people waiting much longer. They shared a last glance and then Bard turned his back to Thranduil, squared his shoulder and started walking.

"Slower," Thranduil whispered, sure Bard would hear and their pace slowed.

They went in procession; Bard first as the new King, then Thranduil and then Dáin, for the Dwarves had forged the crown that would be put upon Bard's brow. This was about symbolism and both he and Dáin had tried to impress this on the Lord of Dale. 

Slowly they walked by the Men of Dale, the Elves of Dale and the Woods alike, the Dwarves of Erebor. Dale had always been a mixed settlement and from the start Thranduil had known it would be again, although Dwarves and Elves still kept clearly apart. Behind him he heard Dáin's steps and knew they were at a pace that didn't have him hurry with his stumpy legs. 

Looking ahead he spotted Bard's children in the first row, flanked on one side by guards both of Men and Elves, Cúthalion and Tauriel among them, and Duinhir on the other. Dáin's children also were there, on the other side of the aisle they were walking. It was that moment that someone else turned around and it was Legolas, and Aldarion and the Rohir next to him. 

Thranduil knew he made a sound of surprise but it was quiet enough that only Bard walking so close in front of him could hear. Legolas' hair had grown longer, and his expression was filled with an equanimity that Thranduil hadn't seen in his son in many years. 

"How?" he breathed and saw the way Bard's shoulders squared a bit more. 

The words Bard then spoke were almost too quiet for even Thranduil to make them out. "I know you missed him, I asked the thrushes to find Aldarion. Surprise is not your prerogative."

They were level with that first row now and Legolas offered Thranduil a smile. It spoke more than words could about longing and the sorely missed feeling of home. He made a gesture of greeting and love and Thranduil felt himself let out a breath. He returned the smile before ascending the few steps to the level of the fountain. 

When Bard turned around to face his people, they exchanged a brief glance which Thranduil hoped conveyed his gratitude until he could say it properly. He received a pleased smile in return before Bard's expression turned nervous again. Thranduil and Dáin meanwhile took the two additional steps to stand behind him and then turned around as well.

From his vantage point Thranduil overlooked their assembled people—Eldar, Men and Dwarves—in a city that had been scorched earth for generations. Though he did not know when it would descend, he knew what was brewing in the shadows and what devastation that darkness would wreak among them all. Yet here they were laying another cornerstone for their future and for the generations to come. Erebor was rebuilding, Dale would flourish and his Wood prevailed eternal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thank you everyone for sticking around, I had a lot of fun writing this!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Oddities of Fate and Circumstance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626892) by [carmenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenta/pseuds/carmenta)




End file.
